


Good Girl

by NovemberBlueSky



Category: Star Wars - All Media Types, Star Wars Original Trilogy
Genre: Anal Fingering, Breathplay, Choking, Dom/sub, F/M, Force Choking (Star Wars), Forced Marriage, I'm Going to Hell, Inappropriate Use of the Force, Just a bit of butt stuff, Mind Manipulation, PWP, Porn With Plot, Rough Sex, The Author Regrets Everything, The Helmet Stays on During Sex, just barely
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-01-12
Updated: 2021-03-06
Packaged: 2021-03-17 00:35:52
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 9
Words: 36,084
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28715871
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/NovemberBlueSky/pseuds/NovemberBlueSky
Summary: What happens when Darth Vader chokes you and realizes that you like it?
Relationships: Darth Vader/Reader
Comments: 78
Kudos: 174





	1. Choke Me Harder Vader

**Author's Note:**

> Okay y'all, here's my homage to Daddy Vader. There's some slightly dubious consent here. Also just generally power play, so if that's not your thing then this is probably not the fic for you.
> 
> This is 90% smut so you know the drill.
> 
> I was watching the original trilogy when I wondered what would happen if an officer who liked breath play got on Vader's bad side. This is the nonsense that resulted.

You are just another gray-suited Imp officer. You’re nothing special, except for your talents at slicing, which means you’re the go to when it comes to communications intercepting.

So when Lord Vader needs an especially talented slicer, your superior throws out your name even though you wish you could’ve faded away instead of having the attention of Darth Vader fall on you. His gaze feels like a physical weight on your skin, burning away all your confidence, your talents, your defenses. You feel like going up in smoke as the passive facade of Vader’s mask pins you in place.

“Can you do it, Officer?” His voice shakes you back to the present where it’s clear your anxiety has made you miss something because there is no patience bleeding through the heavily modulated words.

“Y-Yes, sir. Lord Vader, sir.” You nod too fast, panicked. What have you agreed to? Well, it’s too late now.

He turns and strides for the turbolift, his black cape flaring out and billowing. Your superior jabs an elbow into your arm, forcing you up and into motion, following after the imposing figure of the Dark Lord.

You know that he holds your life in his hands and one failure, one tiny slip up on your part will doom you to demotion at best, death at worst. You know that he brooks no failure and expects only the best. You know all this and yet you can’t help but imagine that if this goes well, there’s a chance for a handsome reward. A promotion, a commendation, your life? All very much worth it.

He stands in the turbolift, making absolutely no room for you, unyielding, uncompromising. You hesitate for only a moment, but he raises his hand and uses two blacked gloved fingers to make a come hither gesture. It ripples through you, the gesture hitting you with a physical sensation of arousal. You obey, without pause this time, entering and turning sharply, trying to hide your uncertainty in the motion. 

You are standing in front of his left side, just barely enough room for you in the small cylinder. You feel his presence like a radiation storm outside a ship, painfully aware of the threat and the danger even without seeing it directly. The whoosh of his breathing fills the rest of the space, leaving no room for you.

One huge hand lands on your shoulder, startling you so badly you gasp loudly, realizing that you’ve been holding your breath this entire time. “Relax,” he intones, mocking you through the hiss and whir of his vocoder and his mechanized breathing.

He must feel your trembling even as you begin to hyperventilate, swinging from not breathing at all to breathing too much to make up the difference. You know it’s illogical, you know that he could just as easily kill you with a twitch of his fingers as make you laugh. Your heartbeat is throbbing through your entire body, centered and thundering under the left side of your chest, mere centimeters from where the tips of his fingers lay still curled over your shoulder.

He keeps it there until the turbolift begins decelerating mere milliseconds before the door opens. When it does, his hand is back at his side as if he’d never moved it, and it strikes you all over again how fast he can be when he wants to. Most of the time he carries his threat in sheer size and overwhelming power, but his physical strength enmeshed with the robotics means that he is capable of moving faster than you ever could, even under the best of circumstances. Between that and the abilities the Force gives him, you feel crushed by your weakness.

Until you remember why you’re here at all.

It’s because he needs you. You. What he is asking, he cannot do himself. You may only hold one card to his dozen, but the one card you do hold is a game changer. You are the best slicer on this ship, in this parsec at least. And although there certainly exists a better slicer somewhere out there in the vastness of the universe, they are for all intents and purposes in this moment, meaningless.

Unless the task he gives is impossible. And you would have no idea because you had been too dazed and panicked to hear the actual assignment.

You stumble out of the turbolift first and immediately shift to the side deferentially, allowing Lord Vader to sweep past you and lead you onwards. He leads you down maybe a hundred corridors or perhaps only two. You’re too caught up in the way that everyone parts and salutes to him. The power he wields just by reputation, by intimidation. It strikes something inside you that rings a pure note. 

At last he keys open a door and sweeps his arm, signalling you to enter first. You nod respectfully, keeping your eyes on the floor. Your gaze is safer there where you’re less likely to stare for too long into the black of his facemask, imagining you are making eye contact, and reveal the heated tinge of your thoughts. There is something about his power that makes you want to flaunt his need of you and also be brought into line by it. You send a prayer to the Maker that he cannot hear these thoughts.

He certainly doesn’t seem to as he leads you to a bank of computer terminals. There’s only a handful of others in the room, and they quickly snap their heads back to their terminals when they see who follows you into the room. He points to a readout screen with his left hand and braces his right on the back of your chair, so you are caged by his body and arms on one side and the wall on the other.

“I need you to decrypt this for me. Then you will need to edit and re-encrypt it and finally embed it in a Rebel database,” he ordered, the words gravelly through the mask’s modulator.

“Yes, Lord Vader,” you reply, flexing your fingers as you watch the readout.

He watches you for several minutes as you set your programs to work on the message, your fingers flashing as they send commands to the computer through the keys. It resists you and you have to push to make any progress. Even then, you know that there’s something not right, and doubt settles into you. Your fingers tremble and slow and you pull your lip in between your teeth subconsciously.

“Sir,” you interrupt the silence after a moment, “I’ve never seen this kind of encryption before. May I ask where it comes from?”

“You may not,” he replies lowly, and his dark aura presses closer still until you feel utterly insignificant, cowering in the seat and shaking.

You nod again but it’s a stuttered motion, as shivers run down your neck along your spine and arms.

You renew your struggle. The code seems to shift with every foray you attempt. It makes you grit your teeth and push harder. As you battle for every inch, you realize that you may not be able to replicate this encryption either. 

Your eyes and fingers move at the speed of the readout and the information about the message that it feeds you until at last, with a last gasp, the encryption breaks.

You huff out a breath and collapse forward, dropping your head against the backs of your hands. 

Immediately you feel a tightness on your throat and your hands scramble against your neck even as you recognize the futility of the motion. You’ve seen this before, unlucky Officers decommissioned on the spot, thrashing helplessly in the air. You’d always wondered and feared what this might feel like. You’re scared and panicked, but what surprises you is the pulse of arousal that throbs through you, settling with heat and a twisted need between your legs. You’ve played with holding your breath while you work your fingers at the apex of your thighs, when you’re with lovers, and need the push to bring your orgasm within reach. You like the way the urgency of air drives the orgasm ahead of it. You didn’t realize that the sensation would work like an association, the need for oxygen immediately making you wet.

Whatever grace had kept your admiration for Darth Vader from his mind fell away. You hear his gasp as your arousal hits him. He twitches his fingers and your face draws impossibly closer to his expressionless mask.

“Your fear,” he grits out, haltingly, “is delicious.” He releases you, and you grasp at your throat, though it does nothing.

“If you cannot do this, you should have said so,” he continues, admonishing you. “I am disappointed.” You feel a thrill go through you and wonder if he would’ve just killed you if he hadn’t felt the reaction you’d had for him.

You rasp, “I’ve decrypted it, sir. I’m not sure if I can overlay the same kind of security, but you can read and edit it now.” You feel the weight of his disappoint and hope instead that he’s pleased, surprised by your triumph.

You hear his breathing tick up for a moment, then he turns deliberately, setting his gaze on the screens. You know what the message says, but it’s mostly nonsense without any more context. Something about Hoth, an ‘icy hellscape,’ and what’s probably troop allocations. You think maybe Hoth is an ice planet, which would explain the second piece, but you wonder idly what the Dark Lord wants with such pedestrian information or why it was so heavily protected.

You take a moment while his attention isn’t burning holes through you to glance around to see what the other techs made of the strange display. The room is empty. They must have fled at the threat of violence. You return your gaze to him and take in the sheer size of him. His height, the blinking lights of his control board, keeping him alive, his limbs encased in black, hiding him away from your sight.

He indicates the changes he wants, and you dutifully key them in. You can’t help but glance at him several times, trying to decipher . . . something. 

You hear him sigh out heavily before his fingers grip your jaw, making you jump. “Finish it,” he growls out, turning your head back to the computer.

“Yes sir,” you breathe, the pressure of his digits through the black gloves conveying his dominion over you, forcing your submission.

You set about trying to recreate the fluid, reactionary code as he releases you. You miss the pressure and the focus his hold gives you. This work is at the very edge of your abilities and you feel the tension in the room ratchet up as you fight the programming to conform.

“Where do you want it embedded, Lord Vader?” you ask, playing for time. You have a sense that if he has to use his powers again, it will only end more permanently for you.

He holds up a datacard between the first two fingers of his hand, extending it. You take it and set it on an empty place on the console and keep rebuilding the layers you tore through.

At least, your shoulders slump with relief and you snatch the datacard and upload the digital address, sending off the false message with a few button taps.

You lean back and stare unseeingly at the bland gray of the console housing. “It’s done, sir.” You feel . . . empty. The challenge completed, no more push back. 

“Look at me,” he commands.

You do without hesitation. “Yes, Lord Vader?”

“You have done well. Tell me, will your reward be most other’s punishment?” 

You turn over his words, confused at first, but you realize at last, he’s referring to the adverse pleasure you had felt at his Force choke.

You feel heat rise in your cheeks, and you can’t begin to think of the words to adequately explain the way that his sheer power makes you wet. That your nipples are hard at the thought of the respect he commands.

You open your mouth to explain that you don’t want to die, that it wasn’t what he must think, but instead his leather gloved hand comes to rest around your face. His thumb digs into one cheek and the splay of his fingers against the other give him total control, as if you’d resist him anyway. The size of his palm strikes you all over as it presses against your mouth. His hand could cover your whole face if he tried.

“No, don’t speak. I know what it is you want. I can . . . feel it,” he growls, and the robotic sound, carrying only the faintest intonation makes the want between your legs combust into a need.

You whimper beneath his glove, and he leans back, commanding, “Rise.”

You stand, the backs of your knees pressed against the seat of the chair as Vader towers over you still.

“Undress,” he demands, releasing you. “Silently.”

You shiver so badly it takes you much longer than usual to undo the fastenings on your tunic. You fold it carefully and move on to your shiny dress boots and pants. You stand there for a heartbeat, trembling in your smallclothes. Vader stays perfectly still, not moving to indict displeasure, the mechanized respirator keeping time. And then your smallclothes join the rest of your neatly folded uniform. Your nipples, already hard, peak in the cool air and heat of his gaze.

Vader’s hands grip your wrists, trapping them against your upper thighs, preempting your urge to cover yourself.

He kneels carefully, bringing his helmet just below your eye level. His right hand releases your left wrist and the leather trails down the length of your thigh. His touch crosses over the top of your knee to graze at the hypersensitive skin on the inside of your leg. His fingers grip against the back of your thigh and his thumb makes an indent in your flesh. He lifts your leg easily, as if it weighed no more than the datacard. It spreads you open, revealing your most sensitive, secret places to his impassive stare.

You hear the respirator falter for a moment and his other hand brushes against the outer lips of your vagina, gathering the leaking wetness there on the already shiny surface of his glove. You jerk at the sudden and unexpected contact.

“For me.” He says it like a statement, yet the barest hint of disbelief bleeds through.

“Yes,” you affirm, breathlessly.

He lifts the hand with your secretions smeared across the fingertips to your mouth, “Look at what I do to you.”

“Yes, Lord Vader,” you sob, and you can feel him in your mind, parsing your reactions. You lick yourself off his fingers, taking two into your mouth, and letting your eyes flutter shut as you moan around his digits. He begins gently rocking them in and out, and the feeling of his fingers in between your lips and teeth, so far from where you want them, send another pulse of arousal to your throbbing cunt. The air is cold against the delicate, exposed skin, coated in your desire.

He pulls his fingers free and brings them to your entrance abruptly. He presses them inwards, and your head tips forward to watch him as he watches his fingers disappear inside you.

“Is this what you want, Officer?” he demands of you, his tone as impassive as his mask.

His fingers are thicker than your own two, and even thicker than some of your trysts’ cocks have been, and he can barely fit more than the end of his middle finger and the tip of his index finger without more easing. You can feel that your muscles are tight with nervousness and the discomfort brought by his acute attention.

“Answer me,” he snaps, withdrawing his fingers. “What do you want?”

“Can’t . . . Ca- can’t you feel it?” you stammer. You don’t know what the rules are here. You know what you really want, but you don’t know if it’s allowed, and even if it was, you aren’t certain you can bring yourself to speak the words out loud.

“Say it.”

“I-I . . . I want you to . . . to f- fu-. . . . I want you in-inside of me,” you gasp. Your face feels on fire with the embarrassment. You are spread wide for him, Lord Vader, a man who is more powerful than almost anyone else in the universe. You are unbearably vulnerable to him, and you could simply be making a fool of yourself.

“Inside of you like this?” he asks, sliding his long middle finger inside you, easily lubricated with your slick.

Your stomach muscles spasm at the sudden stretch and shock of pleasure.

“Yes,” you beg. “More.”

He eases it in and out a half a dozen times, before he begins working his index finger inside you as well. It hurts but in a way that pushes your pleasure higher, makes you want more. You briefly wonder how many of his fingers he could fit inside you at once. The thought makes you shudder as he continues working his fingers in and out, the black sheen of leather marred with your wetness.

He stills his fingers inside you, and you feel your muscles pulsing around him, desperate for more.

“Tell me what you want.” You feel the pressure of his power, confining you, crushing you into submission.

You almost want to cry, you feel your release near yet still impossibly far. You take a shuddering breath, and as you try to work up the courage, you feel his thumb brush between the apex of your cunt, just barely teasing across the tip of your clit. The sudden, lightning sharp sensation arcs through you. 

And like electricity overwhelming a circuit, it breaks through and you babble, “Please, fuck me . . . if- if that’s okay. I need it, p-please. I want to cum so badly, give it to me please. I can’t . . . I need it. I need . . . you. Please, please.”

He sets your leg on his shoulder, and uses his now free hand to spread your pussy lips indecently wide. You shudder as you feel his gaze burn into you there, sending your arousal unbearably high. Still he doesn’t give you what you’re begging for.

Using the fingers that are already wet with your secretions, he gently rubs a circle around the tight bundle of nerves where you need it most.

Your hands clench around the fistfuls of his black cape you’re using to keep your balance. 

“Give me one now, and I’ll think about fucking you,” he says lowly, and it shoots right to your core.

His fingers don’t speed up, despite your begging. You try rocking your hips, but he simply stills his fingers until you cease moving. 

“P-please, I’m so close. Please, I’m going to cum. I’m . . . I’m gonna. Gonna . . . cum,” you groan, shamelessly begging now.

“Are you really that close? Will you cum for me?” he asks, his cadence as slow as the circles around your clit. He teases you with his digits as much as with his words.

You nod frantically, and then you feel that pressure around your throat. You gasp, and only a little air slips through before it’s cut off. Panic and the drive to cum before your air runs out brings you right to the brink. You’re teetering, right on the edge, the pleasure swells impossibly large, and you feel like there’s no way you can carry on.

He growls, “Cum,” as one finger slips inside you, and he continues to work you slowly and unrelentingly.

And you’re undone, clenching hard around the digit, the sensation exploding and shattering you. It’s overloading your circuits. Vader’s fingers don’t stop and his grip is still firm, and the lack of oxygen drives you higher still, your body trembling, spasming, and fluttering as the pleasure roars through you.

He releases your throat and you gasp, inhaling and exhaling, as your body keeps rocking you with aftershocks.

He pulls free of you entirely, letting your leg down, and letting you collapse backward into the chair.

He stands over you, every inch still dark and imposing, and watches you come down from your orgasm. You can’t bear to move, every limb still heavy with endorphins.

He leans down and grabs your throat, pulling you up and then tossing you over the console. The cold controls make your body tighten at the sensation, your nipples peaking. He steps behind you and grips a handful of hair, pulling your head back and making your back arch. His grip is firm and it hurts as much as it feels good. He bends you back far enough that his fingers, wet with your cum, can pinch and pull at your nipples. He’s rough and each twist pulls another noise from between your teeth, another moan. 

He brings his fingers to your mouth and you clean them hungrily, your tongue flicking between his fingers, tasting the leather and your own unique flavor.

“Good girl,” he grunts. 

He lets go of your hair and lifts you bodily onto the chair. Kneeling on the chair, facing the back of it with your knees braced against the arm supports, your hips are finally at a good height, and Vader makes this known by pressing his own hips against your ass. You can feel the hard, hot throb of his cock through his pants.

“Yes, please, Lord Vader. Give it to me.”

His hands leave your skin, and you twist to watch him. “No,” he commands. “Face forward.” He grabbed your wrists and pinned them up against the wall the chair was trapped against.

You whip your head back around and he holds your wrists for a moment before he’s sure you won’t move them. His hands disappear, and you listen attentively to the sounds of his pants opening. A moment passes before you feel the blunt press at your slick entrance.

He seats himself with one thrust, holding you tightly in place with two huge hands.

Even with his earlier efforts, the stretch is deliciously painful, and you groan your pleasure through gritted teeth.

He pulls out and slams back in, and it’s so indecent, so rough, that you ramble, “Darth V-Vader, yesss . . . give it to me. Yess . . . oh yes. F-Fuck me, sir. Fucking give it to me, Lord Vader.”

“Again,” he growls. You aren’t sure what he means, but you keep gabbling on. The rough fucking he’s giving you is satisfying some dark need inside you, and you are leaning into it. He holds your very life in his hands, and the fear and thrill make an intoxicating combination.

One hand releases its crushing grip on your hip and it’s a moment or two before it slaps your ass, forcing a cry out from between your teeth. He spanks you again and a groan filters out through his vocoder, sounding strangled.

“You like it when it hurts. What a good girl. You’re taking my cock so good,” he stutters out, his mechanical respirator speeding up in response to his thrusts.

“Y-Yes, give it to m-me. Vader please . . . fuck me. F-fuck me,” you beg, unsure what more you’re asking for.

He wraps his arms around your torso and brings you upright, so he can bounce you up and down on his cock. This position allows him to set the depth and timing and removes the last of your control. He thrusts powerfully, splitting you open every time he drops you onto his length, driving inside you before he lifts you off again, leaving only the tip inside. He consumes all of you, laying you open mentally and physically, taking your control, your freedom. Owning you with his body, his cock, his darkly rippling power.

“You’re mine, say it. Swear it,” he demands.

“Y-Yours. Lo-Lord Vader . . . I’m yours, yes.”

His thumb presses against your lips and you suck it in eagerly. He follows it with first and second fingers. He removes them, and if you weren’t so tangled up in the next orgasm forcing its way to you, you’d wonder what he was doing with them.

Your curiosity wouldn’t last long. 

His other hand grabs your ass check and spreads it wide, and he stills inside you, feeling your inner muscles rippling around his stiff cock. His wet fingers stroke down the sides of your ass and you feel a shiver of reluctance. You’d never had a partner’s fingers there before, and the sensation is difficult to make sense of while his cock is pressing against your G spot.

The finger circles your anus, and the nerve endings light up, making you moan. He pulls out of you and you feel a stab of fear. You know that it will hurt, badly, if he tries to fuck you there without a lot of preparation.

Vader sucks in a breath of air. “Yess,” he moans. He leaves your cunt empty while he teases the tight, sensitive entrance with the tip of his finger.

“N-no, please. Not . . . I’m not ready. Not . . . there. Please,” you breathe, feeling the pleasure in your core become spiky with anxiety.

He sinks the finger down to the first knuckle and you writhe under him. The emptiness in your pussy is nearly painful in how erotic it is. You know that he knows exactly where you want his attention and he’s purposefully not giving it to you.

“Lord Vader!” you cry out as he works his finger all the way out and all the way in this time. He moves it inside you, and it makes you shudder as it sends pleasure directly to your clit paradoxically. 

He works his finger in and out several times, making you buck against his hold, hoping he will refocus where you want his fingers. He pushed his finger in all the way, and then pushed his cock into your dripping cunt.

The feeling of fullness roars through you and you nearly scream. He begins rocking his digit and his cock in and out of you simultaneously. The sensation makes your head spin, but you follow the feeling, and it’s not long before you realize you’re on the cusp of another orgasm.

“I’m . . . I’m g-gonna cum. Vader! I’m gonna cum!”

“Wait,” he commands, but he doesn’t slow. He doesn’t change anything, and now it’s just you fighting against the impending orgasm, as he pounds into you, hitting your G spot and working the sensitive place between your asscheeks. The feeling of both is quickly becoming more than you can handle and the need to cum is pressing outward, nearly at bursting already.   
“I-I can’t. I can’t s-st-stop.”

“You better. Do not cum. Until I tell you,” he growls lowly, the tip of his thumb working in along with his index finger.

You hold yourself back as long as you can, but you feel yourself passing the point of no return. The precious few seconds before the orgasm detonates in your body are happening.

“N-now. It’s now. I c-can’t . . . It’s happening,” you grit out.

You feel the Force choke wrap around your neck, and the pressure pulls you away enough that you stay, torturously in that plateau, for what you’re afraid will be forever.

You’re already at the place that the oxygen withdrawal would normally bring you too, and now it holds you there. Your heartbeat pounds through you. Vader’s cock slamming into you punishingly.

Lord Vader barks, “Cum, cum for me now.”

He releases the Force hold and the first breath takes you over the edge. The feeling transcends the boundary of your skin, and it rips through you. Your muscles clamp down hard, but Vader keeps his finger in your anus and slams into you twice more before you feel a rush of warmth. You are so full, it makes your toes curl and cramp. You lose yourself to the unending waves of pleasure as they crash over you, drowning you, stealing your thoughts.

Both of you stay entwined under your heartbeats slow and Darth Vader’s respirator cycles slow. 

You feel Vader shudder as he pulls free from your body, tucking himself away.

His fingers push his cum and your fluids back into you, deep. 

“Good girl.”

He helps you into your underclothes, the wetness soaking through almost immediately. 

You pull your collar up, but he loosens it again, revealing the purple daubs from the pressure of the Force against your throat.

“Good girls wear my mark gladly. Be a good girl.”

“Yes, Lord Vader.”

“You will make yourself available to your Lord whenever I need,” he commands, and it shivers through you, sparking pleasure in your core again.

“Yes, Lord Vader,” you say, dipping your head and hiding your smile.


	2. The Chase

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Vader has a bad day and summons you to help him deal with it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay HELLA warnings ahead, there's more choking, breath play, mindfuckery, running, fear, pain, butt stuff, rough sex, etc etc.

You’re working away at some communications interceptions, mostly just garbled junk. After slicing into the information feeds, most of them were just Huttese communiques. The sheer amount of data you had to sift through to extract the handful of fragments from potential Rebel exchanges was daunting. It was a daily slog just to have anything to turn in to Officer Stennic at the end of the day.

So when he arrives at your station, your fingers freeze. “I’m sorry, sir. Nothing good yet,” you preempt his expectations.

“Oh, that’s unfortunate. But not what I need to discuss with you,” he says but then he stops.

“Is something wrong, sir?” you ask, scrutinizing Stennic’s face, his warm brown skin turned a cool taupe with the lack of sunlight on board. His green eyes pin you in place in your seat but you cannot fathom what he wants.

“Darth Vader has requested your presence,” he says hesitantly. “But I don’t want to lose my best slicer, so if you need me to excuse you, I can.”

His face shows concern, but you can’t figure out why at first. But then you realize that he meant the bruises you’ve been wearing like an amethyst collar. They’ve faded to peridot and mystic topaz over the last day or so, but even in the refresher’s mirror when you pull your uniform’s collar up all the way, it doesn’t cover the spill of colors on your neck. So like a good girl, like his good girl, you wear them proudly.

Your fingers reactively rise to brush the soft column of your throat. “Oh, no, Officer Stennic. There’s no need to worry. It was a . . . just a misunderstanding on my part. I wasn’t . . . clear. I’m fine, I swear.”

His eyes narrow with uncertainty, but after a beat he nods and holds out a datapad. “You orders, Officer.”

You take the datapad and key in your unique passcode. The request comes up and you can’t make sense of it at first. The ship’s address it sends her to aren’t in any of the areas typically open to troopers or officers. It’s an entire section including several floors that are off limits without explicit orders. Like the kind displayed under your ensign codes. 

Your finger trembles a little as you select the orders and confirm receipt. You salute Stennic and turn for the turbolift.

You wonder what Vader could want from you in such a high security area of the ship. Actually, you know what you hope it will be, but you try to crush it out in case you’ve completely misinterpreted the summons.

After taking at least three wrong turns, you arrive at the door with the same designation named in the datapad readout. You key in your code and the door gives an error. 

You sigh and feel a stab of panic. The time stamp on the orders was immediate. If you’ve misremembered the location or gotten hopelessly lost, Vader will certainly take out his disappointment on you and not in a good way.

Just as you’ve decided to try to retrace your steps, the door slid open. Your code must not have been given access to this door, so she’d have to be admitted manually. The room beyond the door looks like private quarters. Very luxurious, imposing, minimally appointed quarters. Could this be Vader’s personal rooms? The thought makes your stomach swoop. The walls are charcoal gray and vigorously illuminated by wallwashing. Hidden light sources make the room look bright effortlessly. The floor is covered with shiny black and red tiles in a complicated starburst pattern. There’s an all black divan that dominates the room, sweeping in an asymmetrical half-arc. A low, all white table sits at one end, and there are touches of red, white, and black throughout the room. You try to picture the Dark Lord at ease in this space, but you can’t quite make it work. It seems more like what others would expect out of Vader’s living area. It seems more like the space Vader would intimidate his peers with, Tarkin or Thrawn perhaps. She could picture them perched on the sofa, dwarfed by its size, while Vader paces on the immaculate tiles. The room radiates power and respect, on a slightly lesser scale than Vader himself does.

There’s no one in sight, but you take the open door as invitation and step just inside. The door whooshes and clicks shut making you jump. 

You stand in front of the door for an interminable amount of time, until you hear Vader’s breathing, which proceeds to get incrementally louder. You feel the tension localize in your body, your muscles clenching in reaction. 

And then he was standing in the opening of a corridor in the far right of the space. He seems to dwarf even the hallway he’s standing in, despite the fact that it has to be at least half again as large as Starship regulation hall size. You freeze and just drink in the sight of him. His arms, their strength disguised by the suit’s dark material, covered to the elbow with black leather gloves, the precise texture and taste you are intimately familiar with. His pauldron and pectoral armor shine in the light, looking impossibly broad. The black of his cloak seems to move even as he stood still, rippling in the intensity he’s exuding. The control panel on his chest blinks and flashes, and idly you wonder what kind of programming it has, whether you could dig into it and see if its creator was a better slicer than you. His legs went on for a mile, his black boots immaculate where they stood a shoulder width apart. Finally, you raised your gaze to his helmet and took in the skull-like features, the eye lenses, arching cheekbones, triangular vocoder, all covered by the stylized kabuto. You feel his own gaze piercing you through, lingering on the necklace of bruises ringing your neck, taking in your own bland but pristine uniform. 

You feel greedy and self-indulgent looking at him like this. This much staring would’ve earned you a shark rebuke from a senior officer at best. But here, where there were just the two of you, alone in the place few others have shared with him, it feels bold and scandalous, still not outright allowed.

Just watching him, hearing his breathing, such an intimate sound magnified for him until it was as public as his physique was kept private by his suit, was arousing. It sparked something deep in your stomach that was awakened by great and awe inspiring things. Like the first time you saw the Death Star, but more acute and erotic because he’s watching you too, because he’s touched you, known you more intimately than almost anyone else, has brought you to some of the most powerful orgasms you’ve ever experienced. Just knowing that he’s scrutinizing you is making you wet. You wonder what he thinks of you. What he ordered you here for.

“Sit,” he orders after an eternity.

You obey, gladly. You want to please him. You perch on the edge of the couch, your ankles crossed and your hands folded on your lap. You have to turn around because the divan faces the entrance, and you feel your vulnerability acutely, the hairs on your exposed nape rise and send a shiver down your back. 

You hear him move, slowly, deliberately, stalking closer to you. His footsteps are precise, his breathing measured. His dark aura rolls over you as he comes to a stop just behind you.

His hand cups under your chin and tilts your head back so you are looking up the length of him, bending over just barely enough to hold your head back.

“Tell me your safe word,” he commands, the modulator letting the sharpness of his dominance come through.

“Beskar,” you reply softly, grabbing the most obscure word you can think of at that moment. He bends down further and his other hand presses down on your chest, against the front of the stiff gray of your uniform, his first, second and third fingers resting in the valley between your breasts.

“Beskar,” he repeats, the word coming out softly even through the metallic timbre.

“Yes,” you breathe, unable to move your head more than one or two centimeters in this position. 

“I need you to use it. If you want to leave now, do so. I am . . . frustrated. This will not be . . . gentle. If you choose to stay.” The rasp of his voice through the vocoder rakes through you, and you feel a thrill and fear in equal measure. If he considered last time gentle, what would this time be like?

You stay perfectly still. He’s been very restrained thus far, if he really is frustrated, you feel no sign of it now.

His hand cupping your chin slides down your neck to the ring of bruises and he matches his hand to the bands striping your skin. His hand flexes minutely, the delicacy and precision of the machinery fine tuning his movements. You don’t move an inch, offering up your life to him in the fine-boned and yielding arch of your neck. He must be able to feel your heartbeat speeding up and galloping out of control even through your clothing. It’s the intoxicating mix of arousal from danger and excitement. If he can feel it, he gives no sign. 

The pressure of his hand on your chest increases just before the hand around your throat tightens, pining you in place and cutting off your air in the ‘v’ between his thumb and fingers. 

You fight down your panic; he has had the opportunity to kill you at least twice before and hasn’t done so. If he wants to now, he wouldn’t have asked for your safe word, and if he has really decided to kill you, nothing you do will change it. Your lust twists between your legs feeling at odds with your clothed state and the lack of sexual attention.

You can feel you begin to fight for air as your ribcage flexes, trying to suck in air, and finally your hands reach up to his hand. Your fingers just graze the leather. It strikes you suddenly that you can’t give your safe word even if you wanted to. The tips of your fingers curl around the mechanical digits under the cool glove, but there is no give in his grip.

Your body shakes as terror washes over you and your panic drives you over the edge and makes you thrash. 

He lets out a small noise which is just barely audible over the mechanical suspirations. 

He releases you suddenly and you gasp and cough. You curl inward, reversing the concavity of your back’s arch, and wipe the tears from your eyes as you suck in air. What was that?

“You didn’t fight me,” he says it like a fact, even though it’s a question in equal measure.

You thought he would want your submission, your trust in him, your life in his hands. Maybe you misread him. What if he’s angry and he wants to take it out on you? It’s hard to be angry with someone who is utterly compliant. Okay, you can work with this. If you’re right this time.

“You want me to fight you?” you ask to clarify. You worry that he will take your reaction wrong if you flee without warning. You don’t want him to let you go. You want him to want you, to chase you, and the realization zings through your nerves and makes your cunt clench.

He is silent above you, even as you twist to look at him. “I can fight you,” you offer. It thrills you a little to think of his strength turned on you, relentless and pursuing as waves rushing up the beach. 

“You can’t hope to stand against me.” His words are sheer confidence. With good reason. The chase is a farce, you know that he will win, that there’s absolutely no way you truly hold your own. But you can try.

You stand, clearing your throat and look up at him still. He reaches out a hand, palm upward and curls two fingers in a beckoning motion. 

You flick out your hand and push his away, desperately hoping you’ve read this right. “I’ll use the safe word if I have to.” 

You hear him growl and he leans toward you. “Run,” he says lowly.

Your adrenaline spikes and without a further thought, you’re moving, sprinting for the corridor he entered through. You realize the genius of the floor. It’s slick and offers no grip, so it’s nearly impossible for you to move at full speed. It only serves to heighten your flight response, fear shooting through you as you realize your disadvantage. You’re moving as fast as you can without slipping or skidding, and the hallway seems to stretch out forever in front of you.

You throw a glance over your shoulder and see Lord Vader pacing toward you. His stride is easily equal to two or three of yours. 

Your legs pump faster, but you realize that your shoes aren’t getting the traction that they should. You glance down and realize that your feet are struggling a few centimeters above the floor. You look again at Vader and see his hand is slightly extended, and he’s holding you suspended in the air with apparently no effort at all. You tremble with excitement, the sheer expression of power is terrifying. You thrash in midair, now about 30 centimeters off the ground, and slowly rotate until you are facing the Dark Lord again. He’s maybe two meters away now. He brings you close, until the sound of his respirator fills your entire consciousness. His Force grip tightens over all your limbs until you can’t move at all, and you are left thrashing mentally. You feel the pressure of his Force presence compress around you mentally too, and you feel a scream building up your throat, but your paralysis keeps it trapped.

Suddenly you are released and thrown backwards. You land on your back and the scream squeaks out of you, cut short by the whoof of air that empties your lungs. You scramble backwards before pushing back to your feet and fleeing for what lay on the other end of this corridor. 

You can feel a darkness surrounding your mind, and you know that it’s his Force presence, reading your emotions, taking in your anxiety, your heart rate, and your throb of need for what you hope will come later.

It spurs him on and his footsteps come faster behind you, sending another spike of adrenaline through you. 

You reach the end of the corridor and stumble to a halt.

It’s a bedroom. Somehow you don’t expect this. There is a huge bed that dominates the space, the black silk sheets gleem under the same lighting as the living space. 

Does Vader really sleep on a bed? You shake your head even as you feel a ripple in the pressure against your mind.

He’s right behind you now, and there’s nowhere left for you to run. You feel a sickening lurch as your feet leave the ground again and you fly through the air to land on the bed. You’re disoriented for a moment before you’re scrambling for the edge of the bed. You don’t know how much of a fight Darth Vader wants, but you’re not about to capitulate now. Especially knowing that he can just fling you around bodily.

Your feet find purchase against the floor and you’re bolting back toward the hall to the living area, down which you can see another hall continuing on the far side. Just as you reach the end of the bed, Vader’s arm snaps out and knocks you back down.

You hit the ground again and before you can shake off the shock, you feel his Force grip around your throat. He lifts you, air just barely sawing in and out of your throat, and brings your neck into the steely grip of his hand. Your fingers work against his but to no avail. His hold is tight but not choking, not yet, just controlling you with the motion.

He lowers you until you are seated on the bed, not releasing his grasp. The fingers of his other hand twitch and your uniform placket falls open. He adjusts his hold and looms over you to grope your breast through your underclothes. The pain drives your fear and pleasure higher. You squirm under him and a small noise hisses through Darth Vader’s vocoder.

He removes something from a pocket in his suit, and he lets go long enough to pull a black band of fabric over your eyes. The sudden loss of sight makes you shiver. His hands don’t return right away, and the sound of pants being undone answers why. 

A hand takes a fistful of your hair and pulls your head back, opening your mouth. The hot, smooth head of Darth Vader’s cock presses against your lips. You open your mouth and swirl your tongue around the tip. Your mouth waters as he eases his dick further in. His mechanical respirator’s cycles speed up as he works himself all the way into your mouth. The tip reaches the back of your mouth and Vader uses his hold on your hair to change the angle of your head. 

You swallow and push forward, taking the rest of him until you feel the heat of his skin against your nose and chin. You swallow again reflexively, feeling the need to breathe rise up.

He pulls out of you entirely. “Tap three times if you can’t say ‘beskar,’” he growls.

“Yes, Lord Vader,” you answer, feeling saliva edging your mouth. You put your hands on his thighs, then you feel the tap of his dick against your lower lip and you open again for him. He seats himself in your mouth faster this time, giving you less time for the adjustment, but you’re prepared this time. You know he’s not going to be gentle. And he’s not. He sets a brutal rhythm, working in and out, while you just try to keep your teeth covered and throat relaxed. He sets both hands on your head and fucks your face.

You work one hand closer to the base of his cock and drop it to cradle his balls. He freezes, halfway through an outward stroke. A noise comes through his respirator and you can’t read it as pleasure or discomfort. You wait for a command, for him to order your hand away, but he says nothing. Tentatively, you run your fingers over the sensitive skin, and with a groan he thrusts fully into you and holds you there as you roll his balls between your fingers. You let your hand explore, and his thrusts speed up until they stutter and he throws you backwards.

You’re a mess, you feel like a mess, and you’re certain the drool smeared on your chin, the tears on your cheeks, and the mussed hair make for a rough picture.

You feel the rest of your clothes whipped off roughly, and you hear a ripping noise. Cool air suddenly washes over your body. His hands grip your thighs and haul you down the bed, pulling them wide. You feel the bed dip and then his cock head is at your entrance. You know you are wet but not sure how wet, if it will be enough to manage his need. He eases the head in, the pressure makes you keen, and then his entire, impressive length is inside you. The sudden fullness, pressure, pain, and the tight pleasure that hit you make you arch your back and flail under him.

His hand wraps around your neck again, and he uses it as leverage as he resumes his rough pace. You are not wet enough, but you suddenly feel like you’ve been dropped in an immersion tank. You feel the darkness shift from wrapping around your mind to sinking through you, every thought, every pore, every impulse, every muscle. 

You feel Vader in your mind, and he stokes your fear and arousal until they are the only things that exist. You are for his pleasure, for his debased enjoyment. You feel your breasts squeezed and nipples pinched, even though the unyielding leather of his gloves is still around your throat and bruisingly tight on your hip. He is using the Darkside of Force to play your body and mind like an instrument. A Force touch glides from the notch in your collarbone, down the centerline of your body, between your breasts and dipping into your belly button, until it reaches your clitoris. Your nerve endings are overwhelmed with the touches, pain, pleasure, all knotted up with the way Vader is rifling through your thoughts, pulling forward memories and ideas, making you relive moments of near death and the orgasms he brought you to in the communications lab. He revels in the anxiety and arousal that playing with your ass inspired and brings those moments back over and over. 

He manipulates the Force so it feels like a tongue on your clitoris, flat and muscular, lapping softly one moment and then flexing firmly the next. He’s sifting through every orgasm you’ve ever had, every dirty thought, and you perceive some of his reactions, surprise, intrigue, and lust. 

He feels as you overcome the discomfort from his roughness and begin the inexorable slide toward orgasm. He works you harder and harder, until you are right on the cusp.

Then he brings a thought forward in your mind, and at first you can’t tell where it comes from, but then you realize it’s his own memory.

It’s agony. Sheer, unrelenting, burning agony. You feel as though your skin is being flayed and burned and torn in a thousand different directions. There’s a deeper, more permanent pain here too. Bone deep pain, a thousand times worse than when you broke your arm during training. And it’s centered in three of your limbs, like they’ve been hacked away. It rips through you and takes everything from you but the pain.

You spend an hour in this hell or perhaps only a few seconds before it’s gone.

He hasn’t stopped pounding into you, making your cunt squish and clench, but the impending orgasm has been shattered and you are left shaking with the aftershocks of the pain. He hasn’t stopped his manipulation of the Force either, and the sensations hit you like a tidal wave.

But he isn’t done yet. You feel as he makes you remember the first orgasm he gave you, as he took your air and worked his fingers inside you, drawing out your pleasure until you forgot your name. 

You feel your body work into overtime as it switches gears from immense torment to peak arousal.

Even as he takes utter control of you, you marvel at his restraint, his prowess. He’s been fucking you like he’s near the throes of his own release for so long now. It dawns on you that he’s taking his frustration out on you both equally. He’s punishing himself as he punishes you.

The twisting tendrils of shadow in your mind feel this revelation and contort in reaction. 

You feel the Force on your clit stroking and sliding along the delicate flesh, and now it feels like his gloves even though he hasn’t moved either hand.

You also feel a new presence, teasing the skin around your anus. It now feels like a tongue and unbidden, the image of the Dark Lord with his hot mouth between your asscheeks and his fingers on your clit, rises in your mind.

Darth Vader sees it too and pulls thin the boundary between what you’re imagining and what you’re feeling until the way the Force works your body matches the fantasy perfectly.

Your orgasm is now welling up between your legs and your mind is fighting for it frantically, thrashing against the darkness taking hold of it. You are teetering, every sensation might be the one to send you crashing into ecstasy.

Then another memory comes. It’s aching cold this time. You feel it settle into your bones, numb your toes and fingers, legs, arms, and torso until the cold is singing in your mind. Have you ever been warm, you wonder? Has this sucking, despairing chill always lived in your bones, making them feel like so much dead weight? Your body has given up life, and it leeches out of you with every exhalation. Each inhalation brings ice laden air into your lungs which burn and ache. Your nose feels broken with the penetrating pain that burrows into your brain like the worst migraine you’ve ever felt.

It’s even harder to tell the passage of time, how long the torment lasts.

But it’s lifted at last and every inch of you is trying to reconcile the signals Lord Vader’s memories are invoking.

And then you realize that you are shuddering through that plateau before orgasm.

Your body didn’t wait for you this time. You feel the press of thumbs on the arches of your feet, sending bolts of low heat up your legs where a dozen hands are massaging. You feel more Force hands working your neck, shoulders, scalp, and back. Your nipples are being pulled and twisted, pinched, bitten, and sucked. Your clit feels electrified with sensation. And you feel a thick penetration in your ass. It makes Vader’s cock feel even bigger, the push and pressure inside your cunt even more acute.

He’s been working your body to keep it as close to release while tormenting you.

You’re afraid he’ll keep you in this plateau forever, taunting you with an orgasm always just out of reach. He feels delighted at the thought, and you cry out, mentally and vocally.

“P-pl-please Lord Vader, I need it. I need to cum. Oh Maker, give it to me. You feel so good. Please . . . please,” you gasp.

“Then be a good girl. And cum for your Lord,” he commands, tightening his grip on your throat, cutting off your air, and touches something in your mind.

Blinding white light flashes before your eyes, before the press of his cock head against your G spot breaks the dam, and the orgasm explodes through you. It roars and trembles, and the pleasure bursts against every part of you. You clench around the void the Force has created in your ass, and your cunt spasms against Lord Vader’s cock, your fists cramp where they’ve knotted in the sheets. Your body shudders out of your control and you feel yourself drift. You are lost to the orgasm and lose consciousness.

You gasp awake, aware again as the pressure on your throat releases, and you feel Darth Vader forcing your mind to focus on the feel of his cock rocking in and out of your pussy. 

He numbs everything else, so the only thing you can feel or hear is the ache in your cunt and the slick sound of his cock spearing you open. 

You feel him thrust, once, twice, four times, and then the warm rush of his semen inside you.

With nothing else to distract you, it’s unbearably erotic. Your fluids mix together as he rocks inside you, riding out his own orgasm. 

It all happens in a flash, because you feel his orgasm hit your mind at the same time as it takes hold of him. You feel the hot, tight, squeeze around Vader’s cock, the acute sensation of pulsing semen, cumming freely inside you.

Your mind is already at its breaking point and the dual signals it’s receiving, throbbing cunt, throbbing cock, pain, pleasure, ejaculating, orgasming, you, Vader. It’s too much.

You hear the steady white noise of the respirator before anything else comes to you. Your awareness hangs on to that sound like a lifeline and precariously hauls you up from madness using it to guide you.

You are wrapped in something unbelievably soft and cool. You can’t help but run fingers and lips against it, as your nipples tighten with the brush of sensation across their sensitive tips.

You blink your eyes open. Your location is utterly unfamiliar at first, but then the pieces start to come back. The ceiling is the dark burgundy of fresh blood and the walls are charcoal gray, now lit much more softly. 

You are wrapped in black silk sheets and your head rests in Lord Vader’s lap. His fingers card carefully through the strands of your hair, as he eases you awake.

You still feel him in your mind but much more distantly, as if you were calling to someone at the end of a long dark tunnel.

“I thought I lost you,” he murmurs, the modulator working to pick up the soft words laced with bittersweetness.

“I’m here,” you croak. Your throat feels raw as if you’d been screaming and as the last things you remember begin slotting into place, you realize that you had been.

“I didn’t think you’d be strong enough. I expected you to use your safe word,” he explains.

He had been expecting to push you hard enough to tap out. To quit. He wasn’t expecting it to end this way.

“Rough day?” you ask, a giggle fighting through your aching throat.

He huffs out a noise above you, that could be a sigh or a laugh. You aren’t able to tell.

“Yes. But you were a very good girl,” he says, and even he can feel the pulse of pleasure echo through you at his praise.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If the people cry out for more, then I shall provide. 
> 
> Thank you very much in advance for the kudos and comments. They really do help me to want to write.
> 
> Please, please let me know if there is more or less of something you'd like to see.


	3. The Rebels Aren't Nice

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Plot things happen for plot reasons.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, this chapter is mostly just pain. If you aren't here for the torture or the plot, you can probaly skip this. 
> 
> I'm just taking all kinds of liberties with Naboo being under the Empire's control and the stuff the Rebellion has access to. 
> 
> This is unbeta'd so please feel free to point out anything egregious in the comments.

Stennic has just handed you your orders. Orders for a leave. Like a vacation. A vacation? You don’t even know, but you are packing your only non-uniform clothes and heading for a departure shuttle right now.

Where will you go? Like that’s even a question. You’ll go to Naboo just like everyone else. 

What you can’t figure out, is why. Not many officers get leave privileges. It’s not like you haven’t earned it, but you can’t remember when even Stennic was last given shore leave. 

So is Stennic sending you away to save you? The renewed collar of bruises around your neck disturb him. You can tell by the way his eyes flinch away every time they accidentally land there. 

Could it be Vader? Is he disappointed? Is he sending you away to get rid of you? Or is he rewarding you? Why would he release you? Or is it someone else entirely?

The thoughts swirl through your head as the shuttle carries you through the blue flux of hyperspace. 

You may never get an answer and that’s almost worse. The dark connection at the back of your mind has been stretched until it’s nothing more than a black hole, cold and empty. You miss the intensity of Vader’s presence, the way it fills a room to the brim, leaving no air or space left over for you.

You miss not having to be the best, to be at hundred percent every moment except for the time when you get to collapse onto your bunk. When Vader’s in the room, you can just be instincts and reactions, a body capable of pleasure and pain, with no other expectations than survival. The weight of expectations rest heavily on your shoulders through most of your days.

But not for the next two weeks. For the next two weeks, you are going to do nothing. Absolutely nothing. You will eat, sunbathe, and sleep. No computers, no reports, no expectations. 

No Vader. 

You wistfully try to imagine what it would be like for him to be sitting in the taxispeeder next to you, gliding through streets crawling with troopers, headed to a small resort. You can’t quite picture it. Maybe if he was driving? But no, there’s so much soft beauty here, it’s hard for you to reconcile his black armor and darkness amongst the soft color and curvature of the buildings, flashes of green and blue in the distance. 

The inn you check into is small and out of the way. You don’t have many credits to spend on this vacation, and while you wish you could do Naboo in style, you’re just happy to be here at all. It’s a couple hours outside the large port where the shuttle dropped you, and it’s quiet. You seem to be one of only four or five guests. It’s nice. You are so used to the crush and bustle of a Star Destroyer that this is . . . peaceful.

You pass five days walking through fields, swimming in lakes, laying on beaches, and eating fresh fruit and spiced meats. You laze under the sunlight, soaking up the fresh air and quiet.

You decide to hike up to a hill summit where the innkeeper has told you there’s a cave with a crystal clear pool fed by a waterfall.

You set your pack down and strip off your clothes in the dim cave and slip into the water. It’s cool and refreshing. You swim until you’re pleasantly tired and then wrap yourself in a towel and tuck into a light lunch.

You’re just slipping back into your plain tunic and leggings when everything goes from the half-light of the cavern to full black.

When you come to, the first thing you realize is that you are cold. You can feel your bare skin against cold metal or plastoid, the thin tunic and leggings barely doing anything to trap your body heat.

It’s still dark, but you can feel the strap of a set of goggles around your head, so the opacity must be set to maximum. You are cuffed, wrists and ankles, to what is almost certainly an interrogation table.

You strain against the cuffs, just to test their give, but they stay firm.

For a wild, beautiful moment, you think maybe Darth Vader has come to join your vacation.

But the hope is crushed out when you realize that the black tunnel in your mind is smaller and emptier than ever. And close behind that thought is comprehension that you are in an actual, living, breathing nightmare. 

There’s only one group that would kidnap you. One set of people who would stand to gain everything from you and already have nothing to lose.

You are in the hands of the Rebellion.

And if they took you out of all the occupation troops on Naboo, then they know exactly who you are. And you know that they will stop at nothing to extract every last piece of intel and then eliminate you.

And there are nine more days before anyone will even think to look for you.

The chamber door hisses open and you startle, jerking against the restraints.

“Alright, Imp, you know how this works. Let’s just do it the easy way. I’ve got a recorder here, so just spill your guts and then I won’t have to do the dirty work,” the voice is rough and backwater tinted, probably male based on the register. Briefly, you wonder if he even knows who you are.

“Come on, splicer. Don’t make me work for it,” he growls. 

Kriff, he definitely knows who you are. You keep your teeth tightly clenched together. If you try to give him false information, you’re afraid you’ll slip and let something important free. It’s been a long time since your training, when they put everyone through an interrogation techniques simulation, and you’re worried that you are going to break. Already. You’re worried already. You’re doomed.

You hear him tap away on a datapad and the table you’re on rises about forty five degrees from its flat level position.

A hand clamps down just above your knee, and you struggle against the hold. It’s not even the most painful thing you’ve ever felt, but the instinct to rip away is so strong that it’s torturous to be pinned in place just by itself. 

Your teeth grind, but you don’t relent. Even when he switches knees and presses harder.

He sighs, and you feel the prick of an injection.

Real fear roars through you. Who knows what chemicals they have access to? What poison he can pump into you?

It’s only seconds before you feel the drug begin to work. It turns every sensation up to ten. The cold is so cold now that it burns through you. Your nipples are painfully tight, the pressure of the cuffs feels like it’ll break your wrist bones, and the darkness presses into your eyes, making phantom colors and visions pulse.

Your interrogator drags his knuckles down the back of your arm and the sensation bursts across your vision and hearing like explosions. He can see the tendons in your hands and feel the muscles in your arm bunch and flex in reaction.

“Good. It’s working. Now, I’m gonna ask nicely one more time. After that, I’m gonna ask, but it’s not gonna be so nice.”

Fear flushes through you, adrenaline spiking. You can’t clench your teeth anymore because it forces lightning into your jaw and radiates through your face.

His hand takes hold of your knee again and the already bruised skin flairs to life with agony.

This is nice?

You bite down on your lips, the sharpness balancing the ache from your knee. 

“Okay, honey. Less nice it is,” he replies to your silence.

A fist slams into your stomach and your breath whooshes out of you. The pain whites out your vision and your ears ring with the way you fight for breath.

“See, this sweet little shot induces hypersensitivity and synesthesia, or so the boffins tell me. Which means, you’re gonna feel everything twice as strongly and you’re gonna feel it with all your senses too. It’s delightful.”

He adjusts his angle and when his fist connects again and you wretch with the shock and pain. You feel like you can’t catch your breath, and it’s magnified until you’re wheezing but feels like you’re not getting any air in or out.

And suddenly everything is a little more manageable. You know this feeling. You can manage this panic. You lean into the darkness surrounding you, imagining that it was the particular smoky, softness of Vader’s presence and not the cold loneliness you’re currently in. 

“Doll, you can’t be feeling good, just tell us where the Devastator is, and we can set you up nice and comfortable. How does that sound?”

“Nice and comfortable getting evacuated out an airlock, you mean,” you snap before you slam your mouth shut, making your teeth click and a lance of pain shoot up through your cheekbones.

“Aww look at that, slicer’s got a sense of humor,” he growled.

He slapped a couple squares on the outsides of your thighs and you feel a tug, as if they were tied to something.

“Okay, let’s see how you’ll feel plugged in.”

There was a heartbeat before every muscle, every centimeter of your frame contracts. It’s like being struck through with lightning, and every nerve is dying, set aflame and sending a cacophony of signals. 

You’ve never been prepared for this level of pain or sensation. It is unbearable and unending.

Surely this is it. You will die and be released from this hell.

You feel a void approaching and you lean into it, and let it embrace you.

Your head whips to the side and a crack reverberates in your ears. Your whole body feels hollowed out and crispy. The pain earthquakes through your skull.

“Well, looks like we found out how wimpy Imps are. That wasn’t even the highest setting. No more unconsciousness for you,” he says, pressing another syringe tip to your skin. “Now, I’ve gotta go deal with some other business, but I’m leaving you a little parting gift.”

You hear the door swish shut. And wait. For something.

Then you hear a loud boom, the sound of a concussion charge against the hull, or an air to ground missile detonating on a base. It comes again and again, louder every time. Your heartbeat kicks into overdrive. Death is coming. Immolation. Better than another second of this.

There comes a boom that sounds like it must have been a direct strike overhead. You wait.

Then nothing. There’s just the rush of blood through your veins, the lingering ache and burn radiating from your stomach, and the pounding of your heart.

You hear a rushing, thundering louder and louder, a crash, and then water swirls around your ankles, creeping slowly up and up, and you fight your restraints even as it reaches your chin and your nose and your eyes. As you fight against breathing in the water, holding your breath, and the chill liquid filling your ears. Your body shudders once, twice, and you give in, you breathe, expecting a rush of water.

But nothing.

The water is gone. You’re left shaking, as the adrenaline leaves you weak and tired.

There’s a crack from beneath you, and the table begins to slide backwards, tipping and scraping across the floor. There’s a screech as two of the feet catch on something and then you’re dropping headfirst, freefalling through the air, the wind whipping and rushing past you as the ground surely rushes up toward you. Your entire body clamps back down, fighting against the sucking pull of gravity.

You fall for hours. Minutes? Days? It’s impossible to tell time. 

You slam back into your body, uninjured, strapped to the table.

Creatures from your darkest nightmares come for you, clacking down the hallway with their extended claws, the stench of rotted flesh caught in their teeth. 

Spiders and snakes swarm your body, creeping and writhing, biting, skittering, jumping. Your teeth fall out and you choke to death on them and your skin falls off and you bleed out in agony.

You die a hundred, a thousand different ways. The powerful hallucinogens, carefully altered to provide the worst visions, bring the worst deaths to life for you, over and over again.

At some point, a cup is held to your lips and you turn to spit out the poison, but you are too weak and hands force your throat to swallow.

You hear things, words like “breaking her,” “code breaker,” “effects too strong,” “compromised,” “kidneys failing,” and “disposing,” and fear rips through you over and over. Have you spilled everything? What have you told them?

What is there left to tell? 

Oh, Vader will be so disappointed. You wish that you had a last chance to see Vader before the Rebels claim your life. You wish that you had one last chance to tell him how much you’ve enjoyed your encounters, the freedom he gives you with his dominance, the tenderness you’ve been afraid to show him. Tears well up at the memory of the last time you saw him, watching you as you left his quarters, feeling sore and pleased in the best ways, the feeling of his fingers in your hair lingering like a good dream. There’s too much there and not enough time now. 

All your regrets, words you want to take back and the most important ones left unsaid, all crush you down. 

You think all this in the tiny space of rational mind they’ve left you. The tiny piece of darkness you’ve carved out from the cacophony of nightmare visions.

The same gruff man comes back and another eternity of agony begins. He spends time taking you apart, piece by piece. He slathers you with bacta and starts again.

He carves something into your shoulder but leaves it untreated. The scab sticks against the table and rips open the wound over and over.

You realize you have begun to talk, but it’s nonsense stories from your childhood. Myths and legends from your homeworld. Stories of gods and dragons. The earliest fairytales, your sanity eroded back to your childhood.

You are a mess. Your whole body itches but you can’t scratch any of it, and honestly that alone is nearly your undoing, knowing that if you just gave up a few key pieces of information, you could make it stop. You stink. Your hair is a mess and sweat soaked. 

Even Vader’s memories seem preferable to this Sarlacc pit now.

The small haven in the back of your mind shrinks until it’s hardly there at all. and your mind begins to pull away, to be set free from its tethers.

Vader is the last thing anchoring you, the nearly extinct corridor in your mind, the way he made you feel more real and present than you’ve ever felt before.

The sound builds in your throat, a last gasp. It tears out through you, shredding everything and taking everything with it. You cry out in agony as you let go. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, oof.
> 
> Next chapter is going up shortly. I'm not gonna leave y'all on a cliffhanger like that. 
> 
> I'm willing to do a rewrite if y'all hate this so just let me know 😬 
> 
> I am setting up a bigger plotpoint with this chapter, but I haven't completely decided how I want to see it resolve so 🤷🤷
> 
> Thanks in advance for the comments and kudoosss ♥️🖤


	4. The Recovery

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This is just some softness and moving us along to the next bit.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm so sorry, please have some softness after last chapter. 
> 
> And some angst.
> 
> And some Vader-working-through-Anakin's-issues 💋
> 
> There's no /sex/ sex here, but there's some /content/ so I'm sorry for that too in advance.

You were born in darkness and from you darkness will come. 

It fills you up. You’re defined only by the light. You are everything it is not. But light is not life and darkness is not death. They are two halves of the same whole. And you slip free from the anchors of one into the other.

It is a second life, this darkness. It is not death but a chaos made incarnate.

You open your eyes. You see through lenses that enhance your vision, making minutiae visible and revealing light past the visible spectrum. 

You watch with brimming anger as Rebel scum are cut down and crushed, choked and stabbed. How dare they? How dare they set themselves in defiance to you?

They are nothing. You wipe them out like the helpless weaklings they are. Nothing can touch you. The Forces sings its Dark song and you are its instrument and composer, creator and muse. It’s raw energy and it’s delicious.

The makeshift blindfold is ripped off you, your double vision resolves, and there is Vader, resplendent and deadly, his life Force filling you up with its undulating smoke. His breathing is music to you, and tears well up at this final gift.

Your shackles are released, and he scoops you up and carries you. Pressed up against him like this, you can feel the mechanical whir and vibrations of his suit, and it’s this that finally puts you back to sleep.

-

You blearily blink your eyes open and look out through the haze of bacta. You’re a bacta tank. These things are so kriffing expensive. You feel like you’ve just taken a huge hit of spice, you’re so blissed out. Even the breathing apparatus strapped around your head doesn’t panic you like it ought to.

Everything feels very far away and dreamlike, so when you see Vader appear through the distortion of bacta, you giggle through the respirator. He’s looking at you. You’re naked. It’s funny.

You watch as he does something to a control pad nearby. A tightness sets in across your chest and under your arms as you are slowly pulled up through the healing liquid. As you emerge, you feel it drip off you, more viscous than water. You dangle limply from the harness even as it drops you just in front of a sleek white cubicle.

Darth Vader draps you across his body, taking your weight as he frees you from the harness and eases you down onto a ledge in the cubicle. You realize it’s a refresher as he hits a button and water rains down, soft and warm, washing away the leftover bacta. It’s the nicest refresher you’ve ever seen.

He’s ready with a huge towel and wraps you up tightly. He lifts you again. Should you be embarrassed that you are so much luggage to him? He deposits you on a bed, and you feel so unbelievably good. It washes over you, and you are certain this must be some kind of afterlife, a hallucination, a fantasy.

Lord Vader’s vocoder clicks on, and he says lowly, “I’m really here. No tricks.”

You feel the shifting black tendrils brushing through your thoughts. They’re real. You’re real. He’s real.

You’re really here, laying between Vader’s legs as he lifts your head onto his thigh and begins working a comb through your hair.

You begin crying, tears running down your face, and it aches the way it does after you’ve been crying all day and just can’t stop.

“Shh, you’re alright now. You survived,” he murmurs, the mechanical hiss rounding his words.

“What did I tell them?” you croak. Your throat is so shredded, each word hurts. The respirator kept the bacta from reaching it.

His fingers still and he watches you for a long moment. 

“You don’t know?” he replies.

You shake your head, the motion making the room tip and spin. He holds your head up for a minute and brings a cup to your lips. You drink, and your throat feels better almost immediately.

“I don’t think . . . I do not believe you told them anything. I had their datapads seized, so you can slice into them later to be sure, but all I’ve seen here,” he says, fingers brushing your temple, “is just insane babbling.” He huffs out a noise that might be a laugh, and you can’t help but smile.

“I thought . . . I thought that I’d d-died,” you stammer, uncertain if you can even say the words without breaking down.

Vader is quiet for a long time, and you settle into the silence, accepting it.

Finally, he says, “I thought you did too. I heard you screaming . . . crying out. Here” His fingers brush your temple again, before returning to work through the knots in your hair. “I thought it was your dying words. What I’ve seen since . . . what the techs discovered were in the injections they gave you. Well. They must’ve wanted that information badly. Badly enough to risk killing you in the process of extracting it.”

You are marvelling in his words, soaking them in. You don’t remember him every saying so much, and you hardly take in what he’s saying. You didn’t know you could sleep this much but that’s what you do, you drift off again.

Your dreams are fraught with the visions the injections gave you and jerk awake several times throughout the night. You feel more awake now than ever, despite the cocoon like darkness and the deep, slow cycles of Vader’s respirator. You are pressed tight to his side and feel wickedly indecent, wrapped in a sheet next to Vader’s long, fully suited body. You feel a spark of arousal flare to life between your legs, knowing you’re naked under the thin sheet and so close to his completely covered body. 

You lie there for a while, waiting for sleep to return, but when it doesn’t and the need hits you more intensely, you roll onto your back. You work your hand under the sheet and make an indulgently long, slow stroke through your slick folds. It feels as though your body is unfurling like a flower under your gentle touches. The arousal blooms and sweeps all other thoughts aside. Your breath stutters and the pleasure peaks and pulses. You remember how Lord Vader brought you to a thundering orgasm, with slow measured strokes that undid you entirely. You use two fingers and a long, slow circle and let the pleasure wind higher and higher.

You startle as a leather clad hand pulls yours away. Lord Vader murmurs your name, before continuing, “Maker, you can’t do that when I’m right here.” 

You had been so lost to your own pleasure, you hadn’t noticed the way his breathing cycles had sped up and stuttered when he’d realized what you were doing and what exactly you were thinking while you touched yourself.

His fingers replace yours and your back arches off the bed with the feeling of his fingers circling your clit, making your pussy clench and every muscle flex with pleasure.

His helmet is close by, and you press your forehead to its jawline. After a beat, you tuck your head into the crook of his neck, where it’s just that soft black armorweave and no sharp edges. It also smells distinctly like him, a dark scent with a slight medicinal edge. It’s a heady mixture of leather and cedar. You can feel as his index and middle finger sweep past your entrance how much slicker they are as they sweep upwards again.

He makes a soft noise like a groan, and pressed as tightly to him as you are, you feel it and much as hear it, and it sends another pulse through your body.

You consider verbalizing your desire for him to fill you, but you feel his reply twist through your mind instead: Shh, just be a good girl and let me take care of you.

His words, rich and deep, echoing without the modulator, twining with your thoughts, brings you to the edge.

You keen and grab his wrist, orgasm only a few more strokes away. He doesn’t change his motions at all, and your release rolls through you. It’s sweet and soft, and so utterly unlike what you’ve come to expect.

You definitely don’t expect him to keep that same pace, working your way through your orgasm and not slowing even as you whimper and gasp, “Lord Vader.”

“Give me another, good girl,” he commands out loud, but it also rings through your head.

You’re hypersensitive now, and the sensation is just on this side of pleasure as he drags you back up towards orgasm again. His circles are more careful now, skirting the engorged bundle of nerves. His ministrations slow slightly as your wetness makes it harder for him to control his motions.

You feel him marvel at how wet you are, at your reaction to him. You feel the darkly twisting thoughts of his mind just out of your reach and wonder what he’s thinking about.

It’s the last thought before another orgasm hits you. This one is harder and faster than the first, wringing you out. 

His fingers slip lower, and he slides his middle finger deep inside you. The feeling of something inside you at last is exquisite. Your cunt muscles spasm around his digit in the aftershocks of orgasm. He rocks it inside you and your breathing flutters. 

Your legs are spread obscenely wide, but your face is still pressed against his neck, your lips resting along the upper edge of his breastplate. His other arm is stretched out along the bed, ready to pillow your head if you decide to move.

He continues working his finger in and out, and presses his palm over your pussy. The pressure of his palm stimulates your labia and your clitoris simultaneously. You can really feel how wet you are, and it increases your arousal tenfold. He feels it when he hits your G spot, and he presses his finger tip to it over and over, working your clitoris with every stroke.

It’s not long before you’re cumming again. You’re shuddering and shaking through another release. You thought after this many orgasms, the feeling would get less intense, but it doesn’t. Each one seems to build on the last one.

Darth Vader hisses through the vocoder, “How many can you take?”

A tremble goes through your body, and you feel Vader’s pleasure at the way your hot breath bleeds through his cowl. You keen again.

He hmms and continues, “At least one more, I bet.”

He works his index finger inside you, and the stretch makes you gasp. The dark tendrils in your mind touch something deep, and the pleasure swells to the point of breaking. Your orgasm feels so close again already. He brings it crashing down on you, your pussy tightening around his digits with ecstasy. 

He uses your mind and his fingers to bring you at least two more orgasms, likely more, you just can’t keep track after a while. Each one was different, but they were all gentle, no hard edges or sharp pain anywhere. After your time on the interrogation table, you’re unspeakably grateful for that.

At last, he feels your exhaustion creep back and brings his hand to your mouth. You lick the leather clean, and then he turns you on to your side and curls around you so you can fall back asleep.

When you wake again, it’s silent. You untangle yourself from the sheets and stand, stretching and locating the bathroom. You refresh yourself and reenter the space. It wasn’t the private quarters on the Devastator like you’d assumed while you were still so out of it. It was a very similarly styled room but more of an open concept. The entire space was about three floors tall and cylindrical. Everything was in the open except for the bathroom, which was separate from the refresher and tucked into the wall.

The Dark Lord was nowhere to be found. You stand quietly for a moment and just let your surroundings wash over you. After a minute or two, you could hear the very faint sound of his respirator from an adjoining chamber.

There’s no window in the door, so you knock, but hear no response after a beat. You’re still naked, so instead you cast around for some clothes.

It doesn’t take you long to lap the entire space and discover that there’s nothing for you, but it takes long enough for Vader to finish his business and reenter the room. 

He stands in the doorway, assessing you, your nakedness, for several long moments. He strides to a cabinet in the wall. It hisses open and he removes some dark clothing. He returns to the bed and lays the bundle down.

You cross to meet him. The tunic and pants are too big, but you pull them on, cuffing the sleeves and trousers, and tightening the waist.

You look up at him, wondering who was supposed to talk first.

“Where are we?” you ask, unable to wait.

“My personal quarters on Mustafar,” he replied. You wish you could read his face for any clue as to what you should say next.

“They’re very nice. Thank you for the bacta dip,” you say, tilting your head toward the tank.

“You’re welcome. You needed it.” After he beat he continued, “In light of what happened, you’re being transferred. You’ll have the chance to finish out any remaining projects, including the Rebels’ datapads. But then you’ll be sent to Corsin.”

Your stomach swoops, and you can’t make sense of his words. “Why?” That’s all you can get out, and it’s woefully inadequate to the swirl of emotions in your head.

“You’re in danger,” he grits out like it’s obvious.

Your eyebrows scrunch in confusion, “I work on the Devastator. It’s the best protected Star Destroyer in the fleet. I can’t be in that much danger.”

Vader took two angry but controlled steps forward. They were just shy of two meters apart now. 

“You were just captured and nearly lost your sanity at the hands of the Rebels. You can’t truly believe you are safe enough.”

“That was on Naboo. Who knows when I’ll next get shore leave. I’ll be on the Devastator.” You pause, and then say quieter, “Your Star Destroyer.”

“I can’t,” he growls, “Keep you. With me. At all times.”

You stare at him, baffled for several long minutes. You would never ask that of him. You like your work, and besides, that would be totally impractical. You would be so much deadweight to haul around. Again. 

You feel his Force presence rumble. “You will do as I say.”

“Yes, Lord Vader,” you feel like cold water has been dumped on your head. You should have expected this. He is a man who needs to be in control, and you knew that he would use his position as your superior eventually.

He steps near you again and says, “I can sense your defiance.”

“I just . . . I want to know why. Why I’m being punished. Being sent to some backwater planet. Away from you.”

He turns to the viewport. It is tinted and mostly opaque to your eyes, but you know that Vader’s mask has optics that probably show him a nice view.

“It’s . . . It’s because of me that I need to send you away. You’re in danger because of me,” he says, and the pain in his words comes through the vocoder.

You slump down on the floor with your back to the bed. Maker, how are you still so tired. “I’m sorry, Lord Vader, but I still don’t understand. You know that I trust you. Explicitly. You just saved me. You saved my life. I know that what I want is . . . is probably unreasonable to ask of you. So I won’t ask that. But I just can’t figure this out. I can’t be with you all the time but I’m in danger because of you? Please, help me understand.”

You hear his respirator cycles stutter for a few long moments while he works through something.

Finally, he sighs and braces his arms against a medical cabinet. “What won’t you ask of me?” Even through the vocoder, his voice sounds strained, like he wants to know but he’s afraid of the answer.

You dip your head and just breathe for a moment, before tipping it back and replying, “Of course I want to be by your side always. You’re my Dark Lord . . . You’re . . . you. But I know that you have responsibilities that don’t allow for that. I wouldn’t ask you to choose.”

He’s quiet for a long time, and you begin to wonder if you’ve said the wrong thing. 

He shudders, and you feel it through his Force presence more than anything before he brings his hand down and leaves a huge dent in the medical cabinet. He raises his arms and clenches his fists and the cabinet crumples, crushing the expensive medications and supplies inside. You feel him like you’ve never felt him before, and it’s equal measures terrifying and intoxicating. 

You feel him unleash himself, take off the shackles he imposes on his own abilities, and his power crackles through the air.

The darkness in your mind becomes suffocating and thick, suffusing you with his pain and anger.

“I should never have summoned you. I’ve ruined your life. I can’t do anything right,” he roars, the remains of the medical cabinet flying across the room and shattering. “I’ve let you become a weakness, and now I can’t protect you.” A resounding crack echoed through the chamber as the viewport transparisteel began to give under Vader’s Dark Force.

His frustration and impotence swamp you, at odds with the power pulsing through the chamber. It’s so thick and overwhelming, you feel like you can’t breathe. You rock forward on your knees and wrap your hands around your throat. It’s like trying to breathe through a clogged filtration mask. You have to work twice as hard to suck half as much air into your lungs.

“Everyone I love dies, and I’m always too weak, too late. It’s never enough. I’m never enough,” he groans, and the modulator is working hard to process the intensity of his words.

“Vader,” you choke out, the darkness becoming material and cutting off your air in fits. “Please, I’m still here. You saved me.” You push against his darkness, the loss, the anger.

You’re really scared this time, he’s so lost, even to himself. Your vision begins to black at the edges, and you tip forward, your head cracking against the floor as you slip into unconsciousness.

For the dozenth time, you wake and feel the cool press of bacta on your forehead. Darth Vader is holding a cloth soaked in the healing fluid to the contusion.

Your head aches, and you feel sick from Darkness that had nearly overcome you. 

“I’m sorry,” he murmurs. “This is why you must go.”

You raise a hand that trembles and trace the triangular edges of the modulator. “No, this happened because you tried to force me to go. Don’t I get a say?” you ask, smiling weakly.

He growls, “Didn’t you listen to anything I said? Maker, you’re going to be brain damaged at this rate.” He pulls off the compress and sets it to the side, the bacta making short work of the cut and swelling.

“I did listen,” you say and pause. “I’m okay. But if we could find an alternative to Corsin, I would stay. Right here.” You knot your hands in his cowl and mantle and use it to steady yourself as you sit up. You tip your head and lean forward. Vader sits rigidly, warily, watching you, until he tilts his head down a little. 

You bring your lips to the bottom of the vocoder’s triangle. It’s the best kiss you can give him, and you mean it, wrapping your arms around his neck, and drawing your body as close to his as you can. After a moment, his arms tighten around you, holding you there, supporting you. 

His respirator cycles, and you feel his air brush your face. You breathe it in and smile softly. For everything you’ve both done, for all the ways he’s debased you, this is by far the most intimate moment you’ve shared. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Y'all I hope you liked it.
> 
> I have a little plan so bear with me?
> 
> Thank youuu in advance for commentsss and kudosss 🖤♥️


	5. Interlude

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Darth Vader helps you recover and you pass time together.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You know the drill, this is a smut chapter 😘 Content warning for restraints, threats, and forced orgasms. Please let me know in the comments if I'm missing content warnings. 
> 
> My apologies for the slow update time. Last week I was prepping for the start of classes this week, so the next chapter might be a while in coming too.

Darth Vader arranges an extended stay on Mustafar. It’s probably the sweetest thing anyone’s done for you, even if you wish that you could both be enjoying the beautiful countryside on Naboo at the same time. And he must deem it necessary. Vader could easily dump you in any ship’s medbay, and go about his business without the inconvenience, but he stays. With you. While you are still suffering the side effects of the drugs you were dosed with, and the effects are somewhat debilitating. You can’t sleep for more than a couple hours at a time before the nightterrors wake you, and you get migraines so bad they make you cry and dry heave.

Lord Vader spends a lot of time communicating with his inferiors and Emperor Palpatine. He encourages you to pass those hours sedated in the bacta tank, but you are very conscious of the cost. It doesn’t help that trying to breathe through the respirator usually triggers a panic attack, and if you take the sedatives in advance, you are too incapcitated to get into the tank by yourself.

For all the interruptions to your time together, there’s enough to sit together quietly somtimes. You suspect he sinks into a meditative state as the chaos of his presence calms to a pitchblack pool of water. This peaceful time feels terrifically indulgent compared to the busy hive of the Devastator. 

Lord Vader often presses against your mind or rests a hand on your ribcage to feel your breathing. He’s hardly touched you otherwise. 

Finally, you hear the comms in the other room click off, and stride to the door and knock.

The door hisses open and you see the Dark Lord sprawled on a trapezoidal chair that reminded you instantly of a throne the first time you saw it.

“Are you feeling alright?” he asks, the vocoder betraying the carefully moderated neutral tone.

You saunter across the intimidating room, lined with computer stations, all unmanned but blinking and humming. You’ve left his much too long pants in the other room, and the tunic hits you at mid-thigh. You know the way the side slits on the tunic twist and shift, exposing your legs.

You can practically feel his gaze shift from concerned to heated as he watches you walk to him where he sits in his seat of power. The tunic is loose, but you’ve cuffed the arms to your elbows and the square cut obscures your figure. The length of your legs is bare and his helmet dips as he gives you leisurely once over.

You approach him and straddle his lap, your legs bracketing his thick thighs clad in black. You put your hands on his shoulders and lean in. “You’ll never guess what I’m wearing under this,” you murmur.

His hands wrap around your legs just above your knees and he tilts his head. “You want me to guess . . . what you are wearing . . . under my own tunic?” he replies with a growl. 

“Uh huh,” you nod, and press kisses to the edge of the kabuto style helmet.

His hands flex around your thighs and make you breathless. 

“Do I want to know what you have done with the pants? You are lucky I turned off the comm before you came in.” The drag of leather against your bare skin is delectable. 

“You don’t want Tarkin to see this?” you murmur as your fingertips catch the hem and begin to drag it upwards.

The respirator cycles catch and he grabs your wrist. He hissed, “No, this is all for me.” He gathers your wrists in one huge hand and slides the other one up under the hem.

The smooth leather and stitching tease your nerves as it skims around and up the back of your leg, cupping your ass and squeezing before trailing up to your waist.

“Oh you naughty girl. You are not wearing anything at all under my shirt,” he says lowly.

A small noise escapes from between your teeth as his palm flattens against your stomach and makes its way up to the valley between your breasts. He shifts his hand and cups your breast, pinching the nipple. You arch your back and moan his name as you let a string of suggestive images flash for his presence in your mind.

His hand flexes around your wrist at the same time his fingers around your nipple tighten, sending a sharp shoot of pain zing down between your legs.

He flinches beneath you though, and his vocoder purrs, “Kriff, I’m sorry.”

“Nothing to be sorry about, Lord Vader,” you murmur. His hips buck up between your legs and the sexual arousal it elicits makes your pussy flood with anticipation. 

He releases your wrists and cups both your breasts, squeezing and pulling your nipples. You keen at the acute sensations, and you let your hands wander hungrily down his body. His chest shudders and his respirator stutters, struggling to keep up with Vader’s response to your touch. You find all the areas where his armor has gaps and press your fingers to the warm skin through the armorweave. His hands grip your hips and hold you so he can rock against you. 

Your arousal roars to life and you scramble at the Dark Lord’s pants. He makes a low rasp and tightens his grip, standing suddenly. You reflexively wrap your arms around his neck and your legs around his waist.

He carries you through the door and turns a hundred and eighty degrees and pins you against the wall. You feel his Force signature hold you as he undoes the top of his pants and frees his cock. Your mouth waters, and you send another stream of filthy thoughts to black mist edging your mind.

He freezes, the black leather of his glove contrasting against the thick, flushed pink of his dick. You see his hand clench as his cock jumps, and he drops his head, composing himself for a moment.

“Dank farrik, baby girl.” He invades your personal space again as his other hand grips your jaw, “You are such a slut. Throwing those thoughts at me, teasing me. How can I resist this temptation.” He comes in close again and rubs his cock head between the lips of your cunt, smearing your wetness all along your slit.

“Am I a slut, Lord Vader?” you ask, egging him on, ready to beg him to fuck you with his glorious dick. “Am I your slut, Darth Vader? Will you f-fuck your Darkside whore? Pl-please fuck . . . fuck me?” You gasp as the tip of his pre-cum wet dick sweeps the same circles he uses to undo you. It feels so good, but you want him fucking you more than anything. You shove that thought at him and beg, “Please, p-please Vader. I need it. I- I need . . . I need you.”

With a groan, he shifts closer, wrapping your legs tighter around his waist, and releasing his Force hold, letting you drop onto his long, hard length.

You cry out and arch your back before burying your head in the crook of his neck and biting down on the armorweave cowl. 

You feel yourself slowly sinking down every centimeter of him, and the stretch and fullness is like fireworks going off behind your eyes. You feel the press of his pubic bone and tremble knowing that you’ve taken all of him, his entire length. He holds you there and you clench around him needily. You whimper and beg and a shudder rolls through him.

He slides out until just his tip is left inside, and then he reseats himself entirely. You choke on nothing with the way it hurts in such a good way.

He growls, “Maker, you like the pain. I cannot . . . believe . . . you like it . . . when I hurt you.” He punctuates his sentence with deep thrusts. 

Vader in your mind twists with pleasure and you feel the Darkside swell between you two. It’s feeding off the pleasure, the greed, the emotions roiling in your minds. He possesses you, every cell, every atom, and feeling of ownership lets your body unfurl, muscles loosening and pleasure blooming.

He makes a strangled noise at the feeling of your mind opening to him completely, and says, “Say it, tell me. Who do you belong to?”

“You, Lord Vader. I’m yours. Y-yours,” you gasp. He fucks you harder, using the Force to pin you against the wall as much as his strength and snapping his hips back and forth. 

You feel it acutely this time, even as the pounding he’s giving you threatens to overwhelm you, when the smoky dark tendrils of his mind touch that place in yours. It’s buried deeply in your mind but it’s the center of chemical pleasure and where the darkness of your own mind is the blackest. It’s a dark forbidden corner that craves power and yields to Vader at the lightest touch. It makes you jealous and greedy and the power rolling off Vader lights it up like a spark to gunpowder. 

“Cum on my cock,” he commands, and you feel the words as much as hear them. You are so close to cumming all over his cock that you have to grit your teeth as the command takes hold of you. His wishes are tangled up in your thoughts, and you thrash against his hold just for the pleasure of feeling his power flex against you.

You gasp, “Make . . . make me cu-cum, Lord Vader. Make me cum on you c-cock.”

His pace speeds up, the lewd slick sounds from your pussy get even louder. He works his hand around your neck where it was pressed against his armor, your face buried in the crook of his neck. He pins your throat against the wall and uses his mechanics to exert the exact pressure to cut off your air.

He uses the space between you to look at the way his shirt is bunched up and twisted around you and the glisten on his cock as it plunges in and out of your pussy.

The fount of darkness in your mind lights up like photons circling a blackhole. 

“You kriffing slut, you are going cum on my cock. Fucking give it to me.” His respirator whines with his exertion and his vocoder garbles, unable to translate the raw noises he makes. You’re just about to overflow with pleasure, the lack of air and physical and mental stimulation pushing you past your limits.

His strokes begin to lose their brutal rhythm, stuttering out of control. His modulator lets through a burst of static before the rough edge of his desperation growled through, “Maker, cum, please. Now. Do it.”

The smoke in your mind writhes and suddenly the tight pressure in Vader’s cock that’s now pleasure on the cusp of pain fills your awareness. His need to cum is now your need to cum, and the flow of cool air through his lungs tips the need to breathe into acute urgency.

Your orgams thunders through you like a flood, sweeping away everything in its path. Darth Vader’s mind is swept up in your pleasure, and he jerks back inside you just in time, spilling his load inside your hot cunt as your muscles spasm, milking him.

He releases your throat and you don’t have the strength to hold yourself back, so you slump forwards onto his chest.

You feel his body trembling beneath you, as rocked by his release as you are. 

After a few long minutes, his modulator purrs, “Hold . . . hold on to me, good girl.”

You bring your arms around his neck and try to hold on but your muscles are still loose so you fold your arms and cross your ankles behind his back.

He straightens and wraps his arms around you and strolls slowly to the bed. He turns and sits on the edge of the bed, giving you a moment to uncross your ankles so you are straddling his lap. His cock is half-hard inside you, and your cunt contracts around him reflexively, the feeling of him inside you sustaining your arousal. He leans back carefully, taking your weight as he lies down on the bed.

You arrange yourself so no part of you is laying on the control panel on his chest or at risk of hitting a switch accidentally. Idly you trace your fingertip on the shiny black console material that creates a void between the colored lights and switches.

“Who designed this?” you murmur distractedly, your programming curiosity whirring to life.

His vocoder emits a soft, uncertain noise, “It was a . . . collaboration.” After a beat, his hand comes up and lays over the back of yours, moving your hand from the controls. “That is my life under your fingers.”

You switch his grip so you are holding the back of his much larger hand with yours and bring it to your throat. “Here’s my life in your hands.”

The modulator emits a burst of noise and you feel his cock pulse inside you. Your pussy muscles ripple around him, stoking the arousal back up like a gust of air to hot embers. He growls your name and says lowly, “If I stay inside you for much longer, I am going to get hard again.”

A moan tears its way out of you and you roll your hips. You are sore but the ache just makes you feel sluttier and therefore wetter. You shift your hips only a little, just teasing yourself with the motion.

“Keep teasing me and see what happens, baby girl.” The threat only makes you want to keep going, and you wiggle your hand between your bodies to lazily roll over your clit. You are so wet your fingertip slides easily over the soft, delicate, and extremely sensitive flesh.

The hand around your throat tightens and the other hand grips your thigh hard, pressing five oval bruises into your skin. 

“Oh,” he breathes. “Baby girl is a slutty brat. Do you want to be punished? You should know,” he pauses, pulls your hand away from your pussy, and moves his hands to bracket your hips and pin you in place, so he can roll his hips up leisurely, controlling your pleasure. “If you keep pushing me, I will make you cum until you beg for me to stop. You push me,” he punctuates his words with a sharp thrust, “I will push you. I will push you until you cannot speak, cannot think, and cannot stop cumming.” Two more thrusts. “Do you understand?”

He stills beneath you completely, seated all the way inside, every centimeter filling and stretching you. He’s rock hard again, and you can feel your wetness and his semen, slick between you where your bodies meet. Your contractions around his dick are harder than ever, and the tight heat in your pelvis has nearly made the decision for you. Don’t cum now or cum a bunch? What kind of choice is that?

You make eye contact with the Dark Lord through his helmet’s lenses and deliberately raise your hips up and drop back down, feeling him split you open deliciously.

He makes an angry, primal noise that sparks your adrenaline and rolls you both over. He pins you down with a hand on your stomach and leans back, watching as he fucks into the mixture of your release and his own release, smearing the length of his cock. 

“Touch yourself,” he orders. 

You smirk as you reply, “I thought you were gonna to make me cum, Lord Vader.” You know that this is dangerous territory, pushing him like this, but you can’t stop yourself, you are so incandescently happy.

“I will. I want to watch you first.” He doesn’t seem phased by your blatant attempts to rile him up.

You reach down and resume stimulating your clitoris, sending shocks of pleasure through your body. His strokes slow to the pace of a tectonic shift, a dragging out stroke, a measured inward thrust that fills you until it feels like you can’t breathe. It stretches your pleasure out from a hurried, headlong tumble into orgasm to a long slope into absolute devastation.

He watches as you wind yourself up, hauling yourself up the rise toward sweet oblivion. He watches your finger roll over that sensitive bundle of nerves, needing more, more, more. You work yourself up just feeling the heat of his gaze on you.

Just as you feel like you’re in the final stretch, he removes your hand and, reaching up to the head of the bed, brings shackles to clasp around each wrist. The cuffs are light and slim but have absolutely no give. Your arms are restrained so that you can’t even reach your head. 

You thrash as he strokes the panic in your mind, delighted by the desperation and trust warring against each other and fueling the darkness that lurks deep inside.

He holds you still as he works in and out of you a handful of strokes more, before leisurely bringing the pad of his thumb to just barely brush your swollen clit. It’s nowhere near enough sensation but it serves to drive you wild, and you pull on the cuffs, heedless of the way they dig in.

You throw every dirty thought and fantasy you’ve ever had at his faint presence in the back of your mind, including the most embarrassing ones from before he ever said a word to you, when you laid in your bunk and had to muffle your moans by biting the base of your thumb as you came over and over to hazy imaginings of the Dark Lord taking you. 

His pace speeds just just marginally, but it brings you to another level, closer to orgasm, painfully aroused, just the slightest touch of leather to stimulate you.

He brings his hand to your mouth and you suck on his first and second fingers, coating them with your spit, and he brings the backs of those fingers down on either side of your clit and rocks them at the same pace as his fucking. The sudden slickness and the intensity of the added sensation makes your vision white out for a moment. The tight, slick pleasure he feels as he thrusts into your pussy is now replicated around your clitoris, and your legs tremble with the strain of your desire. 

Your orgasm is now building beyond your control, barrelling toward oblivion. He doesn’t change a thing, and with a handful more strokes, it detonates inside you. The darkness in your mind roars up and consumes you as the pleasure wipes everything else away. Your body shudders and spasms, and the Dark Lord works you through your orgasm, only lifting his hand and stilling as your breathing resumes in short pants.

His strokes speed up, and his darkness sings to yours, teasing you and pulling on your arousal. It prevents you from slipping into the usual dip afterwards, and immediately puts you into a state of pleasure plateau. It’s torturous and delicious all at once.

He summons something with the Force, you can feel it through his mind. You try to look at what’s in his hand, but all you can see is a black tube about the size of his finger.

You hear an low hum before it feels like an electric current has been applied directly to that sensitive bundle of nerves. After your senses rush back in a violent torrent, you realize that it’s a vibrator. 

You’re even pretty sure that it’s on its lowest setting. 

It’s fucking overwhelming. It sends lightning sparking up your spine and makes your legs seize up. 

It’s no time at all before another orgasm is roaring up on you. He can feel it building low between your legs. He takes you right to the brink with the vibrator, and just before you tip over the edge, he pulls it away and adjusts his thrusts. 

“Cum on my cock, baby girl. Cum for me,” he purrs through his modulator. The command tips you over the edge, and you’re shuddering through another orgasm.

He keeps his faster pace, just dipping in and out, teasing you, as you recover. 

“Look at me,” he demands, and you comply, your eyelids fluttering. You stare at the dark lenses as he eases the vibrator back through your folds. He drags it along your slick labia, carefully avoiding your clit for the moment.

He feels when you are being brought back to the brink by his careful ministrations. He reaches out to touch that dark place in your mind, and you’re tipping back over the edge again.

He works you up to climax after climax, until you can barely keep your legs up and your arms are aching from hauling against the cuffs. When the vibrator gets too much, he starts fucking you like you’ve been begging him to. He pounds you until you’re tense with pleasure. He pushes you over the edge, and then the vibrator is back on your clit and you’re writhing under him.

Eventually you are so wrung out, you can barely form words. He wasn’t kidding, and even when he feels that you have nothing left, he pushes you to one more.

And then one more after that.

Finally, he feels your desperation as tears well up in your eyes at the intensity. The word ‘beskar’ drifts through your mind, but you aren’t quite ready yet to yield so completely. He feels that you are on the cusp of breaking and he relents.

He tosses the vibrator aside, and his strokes even out and become smooth until they stutter. He presses tight against you, every last centimeter of his impressive length sheathed inside you, and groans lowly as he cums inside you once more. You feel it rock through your mind, and it makes your body arch and flex against his as you ride his release together. It’s all the pleasure without the physical toll and you revel in it, as done in as you are.

He extricates himself, frees you from the restraints, and gets a wet cloth. Even though you’re no longer restrained, you can’t bring yourself to move. He carefully cleans you up, taking the opportunity to watch your hole flutter as his cum leaks out of you. Your whole cunt glistens with how wet you’ve gotten. He wipes you clean, slowly and carefully, unbelievably gently. 

He wraps you in a clean blanket and tucks you against him. You couldn’t have moved even if he asked. You hear his respirator cycles even out. 

It’s been so long since you’ve felt so wound up and then so relaxed. Your life hasn't been easy but you’ve never felt this happy. Even after nearly losing your life at the hands of the Rebels, this is worth it. He’s worth it. Vader is worth every moment, fighting for your life, fighting for him. You are beginning to understand what this means for you, but you aren’t ready to put words to it. And that’s okay. You breathe out and feel your body and mind yield under him entirely.

You feel his mind settle, flashes of his resting thoughts flicker through yours. It’s not what you’d expect, but then the power and intimidation that he wields must be tiring. He must need time to set down the weight of the Empire, and you’re shocked and thrilled that he feels like he can do so now, with you. His thoughts are soothing you from your earlier turmoil. They’re soft and restful, and they lull you both into a gentle sleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you in advance for the comments and kudos!!! They put me in a wonderfully productive writing mode. 
> 
> I'm planning some bacta tank sex so buckle up for that, good girls, guys, and fans of all gender identities 💋🖤


	6. For the People Part One

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Vader and you get closer.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> OKKAAAYYYY trigger warnings for masturbation, edging, denial, sex in fluid, and mind reading. 
> 
> This is just more smut, y'all. Enjoy 💋🖤

The next morning, you wake up to an empty bed. As you come up out of the black embrace of sleep, you notice immediately the lack of warmth and the quiet. You sit up and roll your wrists, feeling the aches from last night and the languid looseness of your body. 

When you woke earlier to use the refresher, you had noticed a thin ring of red around each wrist. You had glanced in the mirror, and for moment, it had looked like your hair was a few shades darker and your eyes were lighter, seemingly lit from within, like embers set in the pools of shadow the ‘fresher light cast on your face. You had been so tired though, it must have been exhaustion. You’d fallen back to sleep faster than ever.

It’s not terribly unusual for you to wake up alone, but after the way your Dark Lord broke you down and built you back up last night, you feel the absence more acutely.

It only takes you a minute, however, to locate Darth Vader, where he’s sitting in the medical area with a glove off and a mechanical hand exposed. He has his other hand working a slender tool deep in the internal workings of the exposed machinery. You roll over on your side and just watch him. He’s clearly very good at what he’s doing, and you get caught up in how enjoyable it is, how erotic, to watch someone doing what they are supremely good at. The confidence, the delicacy of his motions. You can almost imagine the way his eyes squint and the side of his mouth twitches with concentration. He’s used that same careful precision on you, and you feel a ghost of his fingers across your skin and between your folds. The sensation of arousal is almost exhausting as it is electrifying.

You hear a huff from the modulator. “Kriff, I can feel that, you know. Do you ever stop?”

You groan and roll on your back, embarrassed at being caught and chastised. 

And then you hear much quieter, “I never said that I wanted you to stop.”

You freeze up on the bed. He likes the attention? He likes knowing that he’s irresistible to you, that you are overwhelmed by him. Your mind tries to process this but you’re too tired, so you roll back over to watch him.

He’s quiet now, but after a while, he seems satisfied and sets his tools down. He doesn’t immediately don the glove however, and emboldened, you wrap the shimmering sheet around yourself and go to the workbench where he’s sitting.

You look down into the inner workings of his arm and marvel at their complexity, delicacy, and power, all perfectly balanced. You’ve felt, personally, how soft and precise his digits could be, and how equally strong. You’re not particularly mechanically inclined, but you know enough to appreciate the machinery.

You wonder what he’s thinking, what draws him to this kind of work, what else he is so talented at. As if in answer, he flexes the fingers of the mechanical arm, and you watch as the slim pistons, gears, and servos whir to life instantaneously. He watches carefully, looking for something you don’t have the skill to identify, as he works through several positions and movements. His hand finishes palm up on the surface, and you can’t resist reaching over and ghosting your finger over where the lines of his palm would be.

“Can you feel this?” you ask curiously, not particularly expecting an answer. 

“Yes and no,” he replies. “There are sensors that simulate touch, but it is . . . imperfect. There is a numbness that is impossible to compensate for.”

You make a thoughtful noise and trace the same path, sinking into your mind and imagining exactly what your fingertip would feel like dragging across your own palm, the slight drag from your fingerprint against the all the lines on the hand, the lasting piquant sensation, the undercurrents of intimacy and heat. You reach for the boundary of Vader’s mind and let the experience wash over you both.

You hear him gasp as his hand spasms, and you quickly pull your fingers free. 

His helmet doesn’t move a millimeter, but you feel his gaze cut to you. 

“I’m sorry,” you offer up to the silence that follows. You’ve clearly overstepped a boundary. Whatever mental manipulation you’ve done must be against the rules. The unspoken Force rules that shape the universe, the Jedi, the Sith, the forces that guide everything, yet are a mystery to most beings. 

He lets out a long breath. “I was not . . . was not expecting that. That is all.” After a moment he continues, “I need to spend some time in the bacta tank today.”

“Okay,” you reply and shrug. “Just let me know when you need privacy.”

You feel a twitch from him more than you see it. “You have never . . . ,” he trails off as if uncertain how to phrase the question. “You are not curious?”

You still. Are you? You turn the question over. You say at last, “Only if I-I’m . . . allowed. To be . . . curious.” You don’t really know how to express that you have wondered in passing what he might look like under the armor and helm, but not in a serious way. You touch the concave shape of his mask just below where his cheekbone would be and reached out to caress his mind at the same time. “This is more than enough for me, Lord Vader.”

His gloveless fingers brush across the back of your hand, and you let the sensation roll over the borders of your mind, not pushing like last time but inviting. You feel the press of the entirety of his mental landscape, familiar in so many ways to the way his body feels, pressed against yours, his armored and yours naked, his engulfing your smaller frame. His an undulating, encompassing landscape to your portrait miniature. The presence he extends into your mind is such a minor excursion compared to the rest of him. It’s so easy to lean into him, to yield; it’s second nature to you now.

A tremor rocks through you, and for a brief, panicky moment, you think the ground beneath your feet is collapsing. But it’s worse. The instability rocks through your mind, and your vision flickers in and out as pain lances through you, an aftershock as debilitating as the initial event, a remnant of the chemicals used by the Rebels to torture you. It had been long enough since the last episode, you’d hoped you were past this, but as you drop to the ground, a cry breaks through the prison of your tightly clenched teeth.

You thrash on the floor, fighting against the pain that exists only in your mind, as it feels like your bones are being broken methodically, one by one. It’s overtaken by a convulsing, ripping, cramping sensation seated deep in your very core. You hear a desperate, keening whimper, and realize with a shock that it’s you. Everything begins to detach as you tip towards blackness. 

And then a sweet rush of unconsciousness takes you.

You come back to the harsh noises of the respirator pressed close to you. You’re cradled on Lord Vader’s lap, his back to the medical counter. You can feel new bruises and new pains along your spine and elbows and knees. Your head aches and nausea makes everything spin.

You take deep breaths and sternly admonish yourself not to throw up on the Dark Lord of the Galactic Empire. Who was currently holding you like a child or a kitten An inappropriate giggle wells up, and you take an extra deep breath to release the hysteria.

“Are you okay for the moment?” Vader asks.

You don’t trust yourself to speak just yet, so you give a firm nod. He carefully lifts you from his lap and sets you down again, the sheet dragging and twisting around you, doing an abominable job covering your nudity.

He stands, and you stare up the length of his legs, marveling at his height. He strides to the bacta tank and does some things with the attached datapad and equipment. Your headache has grown too pressing to process anything beyond that.

He strides back to you and kneels on his left knee, taking your chin between his thumb and index finger and tips it up so you are forced to meet his gaze, “You need another session in the bacta tank.” He waits a moment for your reaction, but it’s hard to process his words when it feels like someone is shoving an ice pick through your right eye and out through the lower right side of the back of your skull. Finally, he continues, “I also need a session. I’m going to be in the tank with you, is that alright?”

You feel him trying to suss out what is wrong with you, and eventually you blink and dip your head a centimeter or two in the closest thing you can manage to a nod. You don’t understand why he’s asking you. Doesn’t he know that you trust him? Does he still doubt you, the way that you feel? 

As soon as he gets your consent, he pulls the blanket away, administers a sedative, and lifts you, one arm under your knees and the other under the middle of your back. You try to hold on, to help him hold you, but your body is getting heavier and heavier, and it feels like you’re slightly out of phase, mentally and physically, disconnected in an unalarming way. He takes you to the softly glowing cylinder in what feels like only two steps, and then he’s affixing the mask to your face and letting the harness take your weight as it lowers you into the tank. 

You float, suspended in the thick liquid, feeling your body wind up in panic, then the sedative bringing you back down in a faint sort of way, like hearing a conversation from another room. The bacta gets to work, and you start to feel that tingling elation mix with your exhaustion.

After a time, a shadow obscures the soft light, and by the time you blink your eyes open, you meet his own for the first time.

Their golden splendor pierces you clear through. They’re the color of a red giant star, molten gold, your favorite flower, all of them at once and yet more. You can’t breathe, can’t think. They are perfection. More beautiful than you could have ever dreamed. You feel the burn of tears well up and you move your arm through the bacta to touch his cheek. 

You take in the rest of him, the burn scars rippling across his skin, his truncated limbs. You are crying now, realizing that those memories, from his bedroom years ago it seems, were his. Burning alive.

You touch every part of him you can reach and watch as his eyes roll back and his eyelids flutter shut. Your palms drag through the bacta, down his sculpted chest, to the v of his Adonis belt. You reach around and trail your fingers over his ass and up the column of his back. Fitting your thumbs under the sweep of his collarbones, you just look at him and take him in.

And then the press of his mind is all around you, and you can feel the pleasure so intense it borders on pain from your fingertips drifting along his skin. He’s left one mechanical arm attached and he brings it to cup your cheek as well.

You both float like that for several long moments. 

The light and colors from outside the tank blur and smear into an abstract painting, filling your peripheral vision. 

‘Take three deep breaths, and hold the fourth,’ he speaks directly into your mind.

You give a drowsy nod, and he presses his fingertips over your heart and feels your breaths.

You take a deep breath and lock your ribcage and stomach muscles, holding the air in both the upper and lower lobes of your lungs.

He pulls off your respirator and his own and presses his lips against yours urgently, heatedly. His lips are full and smooth, hardly scarred at all, and beautifully shaped. They slot against yours perfectly. He coaxes your lower lip into his mouth and sucks on it, lightly dragging his teeth along it before releasing it. You tug on his lower lip and lave it with your tongue. He draws your tongue into his mouth and the heat of it and taste of him makes you unbearably aroused. You feel him suck your tongue into his mouth, and he might as well have sucked directly on your clitoris for the rush of pleasure it sends crackling down your spine. You feel it all through your core, and the kiss lasts for so long and yet not long enough. 

He replaces your air supply and then his own. You fill your lungs with the dry, cool air. Wrapping your arms around his neck and your legs around his waist, you luxuriate in the press of his skin against yours. 

You can feel his heartbeat and your spine arches, pressing your breasts against him. His chest shudders, and you realize his long, hard length is trapped against your thigh.

He senses your intention and simply sends a ‘Yes.’

You shift your hips and reach down to set the head of his cock at your entrance. The hot, wetness of your folds sends a bolt of heat straight to his groin, and you feel as the urge to seat himself inside you entirely grows until it’s a roaring need. 

You become one as he rocks his hips and you lock your ankles, squeezing your legs to bring him entirely inside, and the Lord Vader and you feel each other so that you are both fucking and being fucked simultaneously. You become a complete circle as the boundaries of your minds blur and the sensations you each feel become unified. Neither of you has the leverage to thrust hard, but that’s not what you want either. You roll your hips against each other, and feel the long, slow, deep strokes. 

The bacta slicks his cock and your folds, and the way your nipples rub against his chest in the warm fluid winds you higher. You free an arm to grab his butt, and he drops his mechanical digits to replicate the feeling on your own ass. You feel his muscles tense and flex deliciously beneath your hand, and your own beneath his hand. You feel the way the sensors in the mechno-arm transmit the feeling like it’s through a glove, there but not. 

You feel the way your cunt muscles grip his hard cock and that sensation alone bounced back and forth between you in the joining of your minds, growing in magnitude with each pass like waves in a channel, becomes almost too much. You know that your orgasm will trigger his, that you will share one release, and you aren’t ready yet. You haven’t had your fill of him like this, bare and warm and vulnerable but still so inevitably, completely, in control.

You begin the cycle of deep breaths again at the same time he does, his intention yours for whatever it matters. 

Your second shared kiss sears across your consciousness. It’s hungry and demanding, with an edge of need. You drop your head to the crook of his neck with the last few moments you can last without air, empty your mouth of fluid, create a seal, and suck and bite a mark into his skin.

You feel the acute flare when his teeth sink into the flesh of your own shoulder.

You jam the respirator back on and nearly suck a lungful of bacta as you clear the valve and work to clear the ache in your lungs. 

You lock gazes with Darth Vader, the twin yellow rings of his irises becoming the only suns you’ll ever need again, and feel as the gentle ebb and flow of your joint pleasure reaches the plateau, and you feel the unstoppable orgasm begin to barrel toward you.

His hand shifts the position of your hips, and the new angle almost brings you over the brink too soon, but you master yourself and find the rhythm again. 

Neither of you can hold back after a half dozen strokes, and as your release is nearly within your reach, you find yourself taking three deep breaths again.

Your whole body thrills with excitement, as the Dark Lord possesses your mouth again. He nips at your lips and licks the inside of your mouth, and you feel the ownership echo through every cell of your body. 

You try to keep up with the kiss but his hunger is just like the rest of him, bigger than you can ever hope to understand, and you feed him with every thought and physical sensation. 

His hand grips you tightly and holds you in place, every centimeter of his cock inside you, thick and stretching and nearly unbearable, as the need to breathe and the graze of his teeth on your lower lip tips you over the edge. 

You feel his balls tighten and draw up, the electric heat shooting down his spine, and you feel your pussy flood and spasm around his cock, and all that is an afterthought to the blackout-white-noise-thunder-fall-roaring-explosion that seizes you. Every last centimeter of you locks around him, as the pleasure detonates inside you in a series of waves, blast charges wiping out everything but the intensity of the cumming inside yourself and around him and kissing him all at once. 

Your body’s cry for oxygen drives you higher, and you feel yourself trembling at the way the orgasm doesn’t drop off, it lingers and lingers.

You inhale bacta when you finally crush the air source into your mouth. But you don’t cough or choke, the bacta absorbing quickly and the sedative, as well as the aftershock of the orgasm, stopping the panic like a wall.

You stay entwined for a long time, riding out the echoes of the release. Time seems to fall away as you feel the other’s need for another kiss, and you pull the respirator off time and time again, to press your lips together. 

After a while, the machines holding the harnesses whir and bring both of your heads above the bacta, leaving you connected at the hip and submerged up to the neck.

You are free at last to exchange languid kiss after languid kiss. Some you keep your eyes open, and lose yourself in the piercing gaze of Darth Vader. And others you simply lock your lips and press your face against his and share breath. 

You could stay there, wrapped up in him, kissing him, open to him completely, forever.

He laughs at this thought, at how much it delights you and himself, and the low rumble that passes from his chest into yours is the best sound, the most amazing feeling.

As the sedative wears off, and your vision is unobstructed by the distortion of the bacta, you are hit by how handsome he is.

Not all of his skin is scarred, and even under the twists of the worst scars, the bone structure is elegant, the planes of his face broad and masculine. You press your lips against every bit of skin you can, and the noises that it rips from his mouth without a modulator to garble them are etched into your memory for all time. They are the most delicious sounds you’ve ever heard. You lick broad stripes along the side of his neck and kiss and suck as many marks as you can on his skin.

You both simply revel in the pleasure with no pressure or goal.

He tastes your skin, running his lips and tongue over every centimeter he can reach. He bites your shoulder again, and it feels so primal, you growl in response. He flexes his body against yours at your reaction, and it feels so unbelievably good that you think you are ruined for anything else. 

A chime sounds from outside the room, and you hear Lord Vader sign against you. You just nod, you knew it couldn’t last. You untangle yourself as the harness begins to lift you free. 

The mechanical arm it’s attached to swings you out, and when it stops, leaving you only a centimeter or two above the floor, you slip free, feeling nearly boneless. You reach out and activate the refresher, stepping under the stream of warm water.

You turn and watch as the harness lowers Vader’s powerful frame onto his mechanical legs. He attaches his other arm and walks to where you stand in ‘fresher, thunderstruck. You’ve never seen him without the suit, and the sight of the elegant and powerful mechanical limbs attached to his strong, beautiful frame is simply more than your neurons can process at this moment.

He pauses just outside the water’s reach and gives you a wary look. You can read so much from his expressions like this. It’s an avalanche of information, and you catalogue as much as you can. 

He breathes softly, “Why are you looking at me like that?” And you realize that perhaps your staring is being misinterpreted. He’s probably equally baffled by the white noise drowning out your thoughts. 

You do the only thing you think can show him. You drop to the ground, folding in half and touching your forehead to the ground between his mechanical feet. After a heartbeat or two, you press a kiss to the top of each foot, the inside of each knee, the border between his flesh leg and his mechanical one. Both sides of his hip get a kiss on the ridge of his Adonis belt, one for his navel, a kiss and a cheeky lick for each dusky nipple, and a final kiss in the center of his chest.

“You are,” you gasp, “The most amazing thing I’ve ever seen.” You swallow and try to quiet the rushing in your mind so he can see most clearly what you mean. “I could look at you for the rest of my life, and it wouldn’t be enough.”

He falls to his knees, and it knocks the breath out of you as if you’d been hit by the action itself. You didn’t expect him to do that at all.

He buries his face against your stomach, feeling the softness of your skin against his and hiding the look on his face. His digits are splayed against your back, and his thoughts flood to you in a rush. You feel his need for security, his fear for you, his doubts about being able to protect you, about the way you feel, your dedication.

You bend and press your lips to the crown of his head. You tell him, even though he can already feel it, “I see you, all of you, and I am yours. Always. And forever.”

He shudders against you, nearly bringing you down, and keens, releasing a noise that rings in your soul like the pure note of a struck bell.

He tips his head back and his mind opens further beneath you, unfolding like a supernova.

You kiss him again, but this time, he kisses you back with all of him. You meet him halfway and envelope him, physically and mentally.

An eternity happens for you both inside this kiss, but outside the harbors of your minds, another chime sounds, more urgent than before.

You reach for the water and wash Lord Vader with your hands, rinsing the bacta residue from his skin so he could don the rest of his armor. 

You finish rinsing off yourself and wrap up in a towel.

When you look again, Darth Vader in all his suited and helmet glory stands before you. You think about all the things you know that precious few others do. The color of his eyes, the way his mouth feels, the way his skin tastes. You hold these things in your heart.

Later, as you drift off to sleep you realize that you felt his equal for the first time, that for as infinite as his hunger seems, you are as endless as the darkness.

The light in the room is dim, and his breathing cycles, clicking and whooshing from behind you, are long and slow. You’ve been slipping into and out of sleep for hours, the memory of his beautiful golden eyes and bare skin burning you awake over and over. The intensity of your shared release returns as a phantom sensation, making you wet and shudder in want. 

Everything that has happened since the moment Vader set his hands on you has changed you. Whatever poisons the Rebels administered and whatever Vader’s constant presence in your mind have done, you are fundamentally changed. You can feel it, in your core, in the way the Dark Lord felt you last night; you have been steeped in Darkness, and you are not unscathed.

You briefly wonder what Stennic would think, if he would recognize you now. If you have a place to return to on the Devastator. If you want to return to the Devastator. What will your future hold?

You remember the press of the Dark Lord’s face against your stomach, and you know that whatever your future is, it is with him.

The thought soothes you, and Vader’s dreams pull you under once again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you MUCHO in advance for kudos, comments, bookmarks, etc!!! 
> 
> I can't believe this has gotten over a thousand hits and almost a hundred kudos!!!
> 
> If you have any suggestions, thoughts, or crits, please drop them in the comments!
> 
> 💋🖤💋🖤💋🖤
> 
> ETA: Okay, I split up this chapter to stick the pegging and somnophilia in the next one, if you aren't into that, please feel free to skip.


	7. For the People Part Two

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Vader dominates you in a new way.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is the pegging and somnophilia sections from what used to be Chapter Six. If that isn't your thing, feel free to skip!

You dream about him, the bacta tank memories inspiring sordid imaginings. You fight for release in the dream, always so close, trying to rock against him the right way, kiss him harder, fuck him deeper inside you. 

You drift upward, losing the images your mind has created, and you wait for the sensations to fade too, but they become more acute, and with a gasp, you jerk awake.

You are sprawled on your back, your arms tangled in the sheets and around Vader’s large torso, your legs are spread wide. Your left leg is draped over his thigh and extends through the triangle his own left leg makes, bent with his foot on the mattress to give him the leverage to twist over you and watch what his hand is doing between your legs.

He is lazily slipping his gloved fingertips through your folds, feeling your desire for him leak out and smear the tops of your thighs. The wash of cool air against your nakedness makes your already peaked nipples even stiffer. You have no idea how long he’s been touching you but realizing that he’s been stoking the heated visions in your sleep brings you right to the brink of orgasm.

He must feel the sudden frantic edge to your need as he dips just the tip of his finger into your entrance and drags the moisture up and around the stiff bud at the top of your slit that is begging for his attention. He must know what he is doing to you, but he says nothing, changes neither his speed nor his pattern, as watches his glove get shinier and shinier with your secretions with every pass.

You want to touch him, to stroke his dick, to give back some iota of this pleasure, but when you move to free an arm, he stiffens and his fingers still. As soon as you stop moving, leaving your right arm tangled in the sheets and your left arm wrapped around his back under his arm, fist clenched in the fabric of his suit, he resumes his attentions. 

His right arm is beneath your head, propping you up so you can watch too, and the sight of his unhurried movements, just touching you for the enjoyment of touching you, is almost more than you can take.

Nothing changes, there’s no added mental or physical stimulation, but then you feel your body seize up, ready to cum. Before you can even process that it’s happening, it’s washing over you, pushing you down into the pleasure and drowning you in it. You breathe out his name as it takes you, wanting him to know what he does to you.

You tremble beneath him and feel his satisfaction suffuse his mind. He revels in the way he can bring you to orgasm, make you cry out, make you bend under his command. He revels in the way that you can take it when he pushes you, that you push back. That even when everything was taken from you, your will never broke.

He brings his hand to your mouth, and you drag your tongue along his fingers, long slow strokes to match his earlier ones. His mind presses against yours, and you send him the flavor of your own release and feel him shudder as he tastes it with you. You lap at his hand until all you can taste is the leather of his glove.

He grips you and rolls you over top him, a slow process as you try to untangle yourself and have to fight against the way cumming has made your limbs heavy. Finally, you come to rest atop him, head on his shoulder, chest twisted to avoid his control panel, and your legs stretching along the length of his own.

You wonder if he just wants to feel the weight of you, the way your breathing falls out of sync with his and presses your ribcage against him as you inhale synchronously. It may not be the most comfortable position for you, but there is plenty to enjoy about it, and you ground yourself in the moment. 

You must have drifted off because the sudden crackle of the vocoder in the silence startles you.

“I want to ask you something,” he says, and the way it sounds as it also reaches your ear where it’s resting on him, is strange.

“Anything,” you mumble drowsily.

You feel his hand on your hip as it climbs the hill of your buttcheek and stops with his fingers just lightly resting in the crack.

You wonder if this is the question, if he’s asking to spank you or play with you or fuck you. You wonder if he’ll verbalize it.

A moment passes, but then he says, “You have never . . . never had someone . . . here before.” 

It’s both a question and a statement, but you answer anyways, uncertainty about the direction of this conversation making your voice tremble, “No.”

“Would . . . would you let me?” he asks. 

You’re too tired to follow at first, and just breathe out a “Let you what?”

His modulator distorts a huff, before you hear him stutter, “Would you . . . let me fuck your ass?”

It takes a moment to sink in but when it does you go sort of rigid. It isn’t that you didn’t enjoy his thumb back there, or that you aren’t willing to, but you are a little afraid. You’ve heard that it can hurt, and you know that Vader likes it when you can take the pain he gives you, but you aren’t sure if you can handle this.

A much bigger sigh bursts through the modulator, followed by, “You are allowed to say no. I just . . . I want all of you. I want you the way no one else has ever had you before.”

The realization goes off like lightbulbs inside your head as you realize where you misread the hesitancy in his question. 

You lift your head and squint your eyes at the lenses in his mask, imagining his eyes resolutely glued to the ceiling, as you ask, “It’s not a pain thing?”

You feel his gaze cut to you now as he rocks his helmet back and forth as an answer in the negative. 

You wait for a beat, feeling the burn of his stare. Finally he says, “No. I would . . . I want to make it enjoyable for you. The first time should always be . . . good. Enjoyable.”

You chew on the inside of your cheek for a moment, thinking it over. He interrupts your thoughts by turning on his side, letting you slide off him and land on the bed.

“You are . . . uncertain. What if . . . what if you could have an idea of what it feels like first? So you . . . would have an idea? Of what it’s like?” The vocoder is working hard to convey his words, but having heard them without the interference, you’re better able to imagine his inflection.

He takes your hand and brings it to rest on his ass.

And after a moment, he explains, “You . . . you could fuck me. Here,” and he finishes the thought inside your mind, ‘and we could share the experience. It wouldn’t be exactly the same for you,’ and you feel a flush heat your cheeks as his thoughts bleed through and you realize he’s referring to his equivalent of your g spot. ‘But then you would . . . know.’

You tighten your hand reflexively at the remembered pleasure of his thoughts and reply out loud, “Y-you . . . you want me . . . to f-fuck you?”

More of his memories play in your head as the idea blooms in your head, combusting as you think it through.

He murmurs directly in your head, ‘Yes.’

He feels as you throw yourself into this idea, already becoming aroused again, and chuckles.

“You are insatiable,” he purrs, as his fingers trail down your body.

An electronic chime stops his fingers, and he sighs.

“Later,” he promises, cupping your breast and giving it a gentle squeeze, before rising and stalking into the throne room, as you’ve come to think of the communications hub next door with that beautiful trapezoidal chair.

Your excitement over Vader’s proposal doesn’t diminish in the slightest over the course of the day, as you eat and check the news on a datapad Vader has given you and give a half-hearted attempt to decrypt some more of the Rebels data. It’s hard to focus on anything with the ideas and thoughts he’s planted in your head.

You notice as you card through those memories, there is a distinct impression of masculinity and power in some of them, and you wonder in a heated way if the Dark Lord enjoys men as well. The thought makes arousal curl low down in your pelvis, and more than once, you feel the waves of Vader’s awareness wash up against the edge of your mind and hush you with a laugh. You can’t help it, you don’t know how to be any quieter and you aren’t very successful at distracting yourself.

You decide to solve the problem yourself and slip your hand beneath the top of the pants. Your cunt is drenched and hot, and just your fingertip is enough to make you keen. 

Suddenly you feel the Force lock you in place. You hear Vader’s command, on the cusp of anger and edged with need and desperation roar through your mind, ‘No! You will wait for me like a good girl.’ You get a flash of what he’s seeing and realize he’s in a tedious meeting with the Emperor and the other high ranking commanders, and the thought of you touching yourself without him is sheer torture. He won’t be able to stay knowing, and feeling, what you’re doing to yourself, and he will be punished for his absence. 

Finally you acquiesce and apply yourself to the Rebels’ encrypted datapads more vigorously, trying to put the context of the information in a separate box in your mind. You work the encryption and lose yourself for a while in the puzzle.

You hear the throne room’s door click open and then closed, and you keep your eyes glued to the screen even though it takes every last ounce of will in your body. Although you succeed in not looking up, your attention is on everything but the datapad. It’s on the noise of his breathing, the sound his boots make on the floor, the barely audible swish of his cloak as he flicks it off his shoulders. You’d seen him do this many times, the way his powerful shoulders roll back as the black fabric floats to the floor. It is nearly enough to make you look at him, but you’re committed to the game now. 

You are as still as it is possible to be, muscles frozen in place. His hands appear on either side of you, gripping the tabletop to your right and left, trapping you between them. It makes your heartbeat spike and your abdominal muscles tighten. He bends over to put his vocoder directly by your ear, his mask and helmet visible in your peripheral. The moment stretches out and every breath cycle elevates your pleasure with just the anticipation.

His vocoder purrs, “Be a good girl, and come fuck me.”

His words shoot through your body like a bolt of lightning, and your back straightens even further.

“Yes, Lord Vader,” you breathe, and you know that you have soaked the crotch of his pants you’ve been wearing. You spend so much time naked that it’s still novel to put on Vader’s tunic and pants, and it’s always a thrill to wear them knowing they’re his. 

He leans back and you spin around to face him, caged in his arms. You knot your hands in the cowl around his neck and kiss the bottom of the triangle on the front of his mask.

He groans and sends you the memory of kissing his bare lips and the absolute elation it inspired. He stays perfectly still for you, until you pull back. You wrap your arms and legs around him, and he carries you to the bed. 

He leans over and lets you drop onto the mattress, immediately hooking his fingers in your waistband and pulling down the pants. Your cheeks heat and you hope he doesn’t see the crotch, but of course, he catches the flash in your mind.

His modulator has no hope of processing the noise that tears out of his throat. It’s raw and hungry, and it’s an intense aphrodisiac. 

“You ruined my pants, babygirl. I should make you pay for that,” he growls.

You’re also ruined, you are so needy and wet for him, you can’t possibly wait. Passing the time without being allowed to touch yourself has essentially been one long edging and denial session. “P-please Lord Vader. Please fuck me. I n-need you . . . righ-right now.”

“I know, I know, babygirl. Trust me.” You writhe as he spreads your legs wide open and takes in the glistening moisture along your slit.

He sinks one finger into you, and you are so wet, it slides in with hardly any resistance. He sets his thumb against your clitoris and rocks his hand back and forth, finger fucking you and rolling over that sensitive bundle of nerves in after each out-stroke. You can feel his gaze flick to your eyes before returning to where his fingers disappear inside you. He puts his hand on your stomach and pins you in place. Splaying his fingers, he presses the heel of his hand to the flesh just above your public bone, so you feel the pressure of his strokes even more acutely. 

He brings you to orgasm fast and hard, pulling no punches and playing no games. He has pulled back from your mind, trying not to get sucked into your release, and making you cum so you can enjoy the next part.

You shake as your body unclenches and your need paradoxically rockets. You sit up and whip off your shirt. You can see the outline of cock through his pants, and you reach for it reflexively.

He grips your wrist, stopping your motion. He asks, “Are you sure? Do you still want to . . . ?”

“Yes,” you stammer, breathlessly. “I do. If you still . . . want to. Yes.”

He groans and shifts off you. He summons several items from a drawer without twitching a finger and moves to the headboard. 

He summons you with a mental tug and hands you a complicated series of straps. He helps you into it, tightening the waist and thigh straps. Now that it’s on, it’s not as complicated as it seems, and it’s strange but not uncomfortable. He pauses and seems to watch you before he finishes assembling it by locking in a satin black phallus that looks slightly smaller than his own. 

“How does that feel?” he asks quietly.

You wrap your hand around it and try thrusting into it. You understand now some of why he enjoys dominating you. This is a heady feeling as you test the weight between your legs, the hardness, the power in your thrusts.

“Good,” you gasp. You feel his pleasure as his mind presses back against yours.

He turns and bends forward slightly and braces one hand over the top of the headboard. His other hand opens his pants and pushes them down, exposing his ass. You uncap the lube and pause.

“I-I’m sorry, I’m not sure . . . ,” you mutter, suddenly uncertain.

He holds up his first two fingers and replies, “I’ll show you.”

You nod, grinning, and squeeze out a glob of clear liquid. He brings his fingers between his asscheeks. Leaning forward further, he works first one finger inside and then the second one. He teases the edges of your mind with the sensation, the stretch and squeeze that makes him even harder.

His respirator cycles pick up slightly, and you lube your own fingers.

He moans, pulling his fingers free, spreading his knees wider, and bending forward a little more.

You run the tip of your slick finger around his opening, teasing his sensitive skin, before you slip one finger inside him, his fingers having loosened the tight ring of muscle and making the penetration easier. Inside, the muscles are tight around most of the length of your finger and the skin is smooth and soft. He presses back against your and you add a second finger. You rock them in and out, feeling him flexing against you when you move your fingers inside him. You add a third and hear his helmet thud as it hits the headboard. Its wood groans under the punishing grip of his hands.

His experience hits you like a detonation. The fullness that he’s not used to but that he craves more of, the stretch and relax as your knuckles push into and out of him, and the slutty way his legs are spread and the way he rocks back into your thrusts.

“Fuck me. Now,” he commands. The need to be filled roaring through his mind and reverberating in your head.

You hurriedly pull your fingers free and apply lube to your dildo, trying not to be distracted by the way that stroking it is making you wet. You add a dollop to his ass at a mental nudge from Vader, and spear it with your cock tip, letting it rest in the indentation of his anus.

You put a hand over his shoulder blade and one on his hip and ask, “Are you ready?”

“Yes!” he growls and plunges into your mind, encouraging, demanding that you to hurry up.

You lodge the head of your cock in him, and your vision whites out as you feel it as well. After a beat, you feel his Force grip around your throat, and he growls into your mind, ‘Inside. Me. Now. Hurry up. And Fuck. Me.’

You react on instinct and bury the rest of length inside him, and you feel that pleasure-pain-burn at being filled. Your pussy muscles flutter around nothing. You pull out and push back in again, slipping through his resistance with the slick of the lube. He releases the choke, overwhelmed by the way you are fucking him. You mimic his rhythm, long slow slides in and out, and let him feel the way it destroys you; the mounting need, the arousal that you want so bad you claw for it. 

He reaches back and grabs your hips, adjusting your angle, and keeps his fingers pressing five ovals into your skin.

You feel your stroke angle differently inside his hot, slick sheath, and your whole body convulses as you hit something inside him. The feeling is like lightning crackling down your spine, and it makes your back arch. You work to get your breathing under control and unclench some of your muscles. You thrust into him again, and even though you are prepared, the sensation is no less intense. 

You feel his impatience, and you fuck him harder, faster. Your thighs are fluttering and your hands clench against him.

His mind is all around you now, and in his pleasure, you realize that his thoughts are pretty unguarded. Memories bleed through, and you feel the circle closing as you fuck the Dark Lord. 

And then that unity washes over you. His cock is bobbing and leaking, and you want to reach for it, but he stops you with a thought. ‘Not yet,’ he murmurs, and you feel the implication, he is close but wants to make it last. Which means you’re close. 

You groan, and your thrusts stutter, and the rapid fire hits to Lord Vader’s prostate make your vision black out. The feeling is intensely pleasurable and debilitating. You realize that you’ve tipped forward, and your face is buried in the black fabric of the back of his suit.

Your next thrust stutters as well, but you fight through it and keep it up, fighting the pleasure. The warm pressure along his back makes him moan, and you hear it vibrating through his body.

The plateau hits you like a podracer and now you can’t stop even if you wanted to. He’s babbling mentally, coming undone beneath you. You wrap your hand around his dick, feeling it throb, and he doesn’t stop you this time. 

Your finger smears his precum over the head, and you feel it pulse, leaking more fluid. Your heartbeat thunders in your ears as you work your hand up and down, the pleasure blacking out your vision. You are reduced to thrusting and stroking, roaring pleasure and the throttling grip of an oncoming orgasm.

He feels it a moment before it happens, his ballsack tightening, his cock giving a hard throb, and his vision sparking.

You give two final thrusts before it feels like your soul leaves your body.

The release rolls through you in waves, making your muscles seize and ripple. You can’t breathe, it takes everything from you. The pleasure feels endless, coming again and again in crests. You tremble and your mind goes so blank, you might have blacked out.

After your heartbeat stops thundering, you slip out of him, feeling both of you twitch and shudder. You slump onto the bed and Vader gets up on shaky legs and visits the refresher. 

You watch him return, and follow his gaze as he takes in the streaks of his cum on the headboard. You are lying on the only clean areas of the bed.

He stares at the slicked black cock jutting up from between your legs, and you feel a pulse of arousal from Vader. You smirk at him and feel him roll his eyes in return. His thoughts are carefully shaded from you, as though he’s drawn curtains across them, even though you are both still caught in the circle of shared mindspace. 

You reluctantly unclip the straps and slip it off, and also visit the ‘fresher. 

When you return, you don’t see Darth Vader on the bed. You walk around the far side, and see that he’s pulled fresh pillows and blankets from the cupboards and has laid them out.

He doesn’t have to do anything for you to stretch out on top of him, like he’s your bed, and drift off to sleep to the gentle rise and fall of his mechanized breathing.

There is no place you’d rather be, even the most luxurious bed in the finest palace in all of the universe. Vader’s laugh rumbles beneath you as dreams catch you both.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you everyone who's commenting and kudo-ing. I would like to say that I write for myself because I enjoy doing it, and that's true, but it means the world to me when you all show me support through feedback. 
> 
> I have a tumblr for this AO3 account now, so look me up (there's nothing on there yet, lol sorry).
> 
> Mwah ;)


	8. The Tide Rolls Out

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Your life turns and reveals new truths.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry y'all this is all just plot. Smut will be coming again soon!

The hallways of the Devastator are too small for you now. Too small for the person you’ve become. You go straight to your room and settle back in. Check on your uniform. Scroll through the endless messages and updates on your datapad. You should go to the cafeteria, greet your fellows. But how will you answer their questions? How will you explain what’s happened? It’s inexplicable. It’s beyond any words you know. 

Finally, you lie down to sleep. 

But you cannot do that either. It’s too quiet. There’s no cycling respirator, no hissing modulator, no rasp of Vader’s darkness against your own. The omnipresent darkness is no longer just Vader, it’s you too, and impossible to tell how much is either of you anymore. But now you feel the solitude acutely. It pricks against you, as loud in the absence of sound as any explosion.

You lapse into a half sleep and wake more tired than before you slept. Time slips and slides nonsensically, and your work seems more tedious than ever. The colleagues you used to be friendly with look at you out of the sides of their eyes, as if afraid to look at you head on as you pace the halls.

You dress and report to your post. Oddly enough, Stennic seems to act the most normal out of them all. He greets you and presents you with the details of your promotion. Your command level is equivalent to his now, and he shows you to the team you will oversee. He lingers while you fumble your way through introducing yourself and navigating your new responsibilities on your datapad. There’s a lot more people management and task management than you are strictly comfortable with. But there isn’t a lot of choice when it comes to the Empire, and if you were told you’re promoted, then you are.

Stennic oversees the rest of your first day, and even accompanies you to the cafeteria. You are unused to his companionship, but it is welcome amidst the coolness of everyone else’s gazes. 

You don’t like this new position. It’s clear many think the promotion should’ve gone to others with the skills to lead a group, not taking the best slicer away from slicing. It’s a lot of scheduling and data flow, abilities that you are quickly learning but are not particularly good at. Your team is decent, a little green but competent. 

You follow Vader’s order to train compulsively. As if by doing so, you will conjure him, bring him back to you sooner.

You hadn’t realized how out of shape you’ve become, but the drills are quickly reestablishing long neglected muscles. Soon, your reactions are faster and you’re growing stronger by the day. 

The added benefit is that by the end of your days, you’re much too tired to dream. 

The officer who’s been supervising you, Ozzel, looks as morose as he seems to feel, but he’s adept at what he does. He pushes you until you get it just so, each blaster shot, each punch, each strike with a staff. And the next day, he expects you to meet a higher standard. Every time you think about quitting, you feel the undulating darkness in your mind, and remember your Lord Vader’s expectations. You don’t want to disappoint him. 

But he feels . . . so far away. 

You shake your head, and focus on your work, your breathing as you run, your strike pattern as you spar Ozzel. Has it been a week since you’ve returned? Or three? Or only two days?

It doesn’t matter honestly. Nothing will matter until Vader is back on board where you know that he’s safe.

Stennic is a surprisingly sturdy presence. He’s a quiet constant through meals and Officers’ meetings. You realize that if it weren’t for the Dark Lord, perhaps you two would have grown closer. He’s a cleancut, direct sort of man that cares for his inferiors. He’s a safe choice.

You are clicking away on your datapad from your position overlooking your team, no longer the best of the best, so you’re located a few levels below the bridge.

It takes a while for the news to reach you.

You’re sitting down to eat quickly when Stennic drops down in front of you and slides his datapad over. There’s a field report pulled up, and it’s marked for a very highlevel security clearance. You honestly aren’t sure how he’s able to look at it, but your curiosity is shoved to the side when you read the opening sentences. There’s some kind of sabotage happening to another Star Destroyer. A new, really nice kriffing Star Destroyer. The Executor. You scan the specs, slightly distracted despite the sinking sensation in your gut. Vader was dispatched to deal with it. And you . . . you have a bad feeling about this. It settles over you like a pall, like a miasma, this feeling like there’s another grenade counting down just out of reach. If only you could get to him somehow. But what help could you be? Your blaster aim has only just improved to above average. Your hand to hand is alright, and you can handle some weapons but the truth is that you’d likely be a liability. It’s the Dark Lord, Darth Vader, he can handle himself. All you have to do is stay safe and stay put so you don’t distract him from his mission. 

Stennic clears his throat and pierces you with those clear, cool eyes. You slide the datapad back over to him, your throat tight. 

He runs a finely-boned hand through his hair, “I thought that might be of interest to you.”

“Thanks,” you reply, trying to keep your voice from cracking. 

He taps at his screen absentmindedly for a few moments before continuing in a low voice, “Whatever is between you two . . . . Be careful.”

You cut your eyes to him quickly, a new anxiety twisting inside you. “I don’t know what you mean.”

He makes a noncommittal noise. “I don’t think I’m the only one who has noticed, Officer. I’m warning you that there we are all pawns to greater players. I don’t want to see you sacrificed in some power play.”

Your first instinct is belligerence. But if anything, you’ve learned caution. You consider his words with care.

“I’ll be careful.” You leave it at that. Whatever is between you and Lord Vader is none of Stennic’s business, and more importantly, keeping it secret will protect you both.

After you finish out your shift, you head to the training levels and greet Ozzel. He has plenty of actual trooper training to oversee, so he doesn’t join you for a while. You run instead, letting your mind go numb and submit to the rhythms and needs of your body. 

You don’t take days off. You just . . . can’t. It feels good to drive yourself hard, to have a goal and strive for it, especially now that your job doesn’t provide the challenge it used to. Not to mention, you hate the long hours alone. Even sleeping. The limited colors of the Devastator’s interior have bled away.

It’s the stress, it must be. Knowing that your Lord is risking his life against the people who had nearly taken yours. What would they do with the Empire’s right hand if they’d nearly killed you for just a bit of information?

Your hands shake almost all the time now, memories like ghosts haunt you.

You are supervising your slicers, assigning packets of incoming information to each station with a tap on your screen, when someone comes up behind you. A warm hand takes yours, stilling your trembling fingers from their motion.

You surreptitiously sweep the room for any who might be watching, but your inferiors are dutifully working away at their stations. 

You turn around, his fingers enveloping and tangling with yours as they drop from the screen to your side. It sends a jolt through your body.

He is standing much too close, and it's overwhelming. It wakes you up, stirring something inside you that’s gone dormant.

You step back, pulling away, and say, “Officer Stennic, is there something I can assist you with?” It feels like for the first time in eighteen days, you’re really awake. Eighteen days. That’s how long it’s been since you last saw the Dark Lord. It feels like an eternity.

Stennic’s face doesn’t once change from the cool, collected expression he always wears. “I’ve come to escort you to the bridge.”

You nod and turn, sending a few last commands through your datapad before locking it and setting it on your desk. You follow Stennic out into the hallway. He leads you down a few turns before you realize that this is not the way to the ship’s bridge. 

He pivots to a door, hits the release, and motions you inside.

It’s a supplies room. A kriffing closet.

“What the shab are we doing in here, Stennic?” you snap.

He rubs a spot on his brow, working over his thoughts. “I need to know what’s going on here.” 

Your eyes tighten in confusion, but you don’t let any other expressions cross your face. “What’s going on where? You decided to lead me into a closet. I would think you should be able to answer that question.”

He sighs, and he just looks so tired, so worn, like he’s been stretched thin. “Whatever happened before you took leave? And then you disappeared for so long I thought that I’d be reading your name on the casualty lists any day. Ever since you started wearing bruises around your neck like a collar, I’ve been worried about you.”

Instinctively you raise your hand to where Vader’s touch still lingers, too faintly after all this time, and reply “I’m fine. Really.”

“No,” he bites out, eyes flashing, “You really aren’t. Aren’t you paying attention?”

“To what?” You try not to shout, but the frustration is making you short with him.

He presses his palms to his eyes. “Do you know how many hidden files have your name all over them? Someone is watching you, paying attention to you. Marking your every move. Why are you training all the time? Why are you withdrawing? Do you know how suspicious it looks? They think the Rebels flipped you, that you’re about to flip for them and tear down as much as you can on your way out.”

You stare at him. Dank farrik. What the kriff is going on? “How do you know all this?”

“Same way I got that report about Lord Vader. You really never thought about slicing into the databases, really seeing what’s happening behind the scenes?”

You mull this over. You hadn’t really, there had always been other things keeping you busy. And it’s not like you’d cared about any of these other major players either. You’d learned that lesson when you’d watched the holofeeds of Alderaan blowing up, that no matter what you think, you’re nothing in the face of the Empire. That’s why Vader is like a strong hit of spice, he sees you in a way that no one else has. Maybe except for Stennic, apparently.

“No, and I never pegged you for being such a rulebreaker, Officer.” You throw his title in his face, just to rub it in.

You watch a muscle bunch in his jaw. “Talk about a case of the Quacta calling the Stifling slimy. I have to know, have you really joined the Rebels?”

You can’t stop your reaction this time, as you rear back and your upper lip pulls back in disgust. “They almost killed me, Stennic. I nearly lost my mind. I would never join them, ever.”

“Well, that’s a relief I suppose. What did they do to you? There are ghost traces in the system of Rebel files, but they’re off the net, only stored on a harddrive, so I can’t get to them.”

A shudder rolls through you. “They . . . ,” you swallow hard. “They used s-some . . . chemicals. Drugged me. Tortured me. I spent a lot of time in bacta tanks afterward.” The memories from Vader’s palace roll over you, and soothe you even as the longing spikes in you.

Stennic crushes you into a hug. The shock keeps you rigid until a warm puff of air stirs your hair. It’s so . . . soft. Everything that he’s supposed to be, everything the Empire should have turned him into, should make him hard. His grip loosens a little and you find yourself wrapping your arms around his middle. 

You stand like that for a while. He’s looked out for you, been a real friend. You need that. You hadn’t realized how much you needed something as simple as a hug.

Okay, lesson learned, don’t underestimate people.

Eventually, you’re both just standing there, leaning into each other, arms looped around the other, not thinking, just being. You occasionally feel a brush of something on the top of your head, probably just Stennic’s exhalations.

The crisp clicking of plastoid boots down the hall breaks the moment. It’s just a patrol, no one knows you’re here or tries to enter the room, but as you look around and take in the closet you realize that you can see the bright colors of the food supplies labels, the nuance in the blue light on the slate gray walls. You straighten and pull away. You tug the wrinkles out of your uniform, brushing invisible lint off. Stennic does much the same, erasing every sign of your indiscretion. 

“Thank you, Stennic. I’ll be more careful. I promise.”

He pierces you through with his gaze, “My name is Pyotr. And you better. I might not always be here to watch your back.”

You give him a crisp nod and head back to your station. Your feelings roll through you one after another almost too fast to identify. 

Your team has done a decent job so you dismiss them early, watching as they file out and remembering from what feels like so long ago, pacing to your quarters under Stennic’s own watchful, considerate gaze.

You return to your own room, change, and set up in the firing range on the training level. It’s as though you are doing everything for the first time, with eyes wide open and your attention completely focused.

You don’t miss a single shot.

Not a one.

Your focus is a laser beam guiding every blaster shot home. Your breathing, your stance, it’s harmonious. Your muscles feel loose and powerful, and everything looks crisp like etched transparisteel.

As you feel more and more curious glances, you return the blaster to its place on the weapon’s wall and decide to run instead. 

Once your body is sufficiently exhausted, feeling shaky and loose in a much different way, you head for your bunk.

For the first night in eighteen days, you dream. Blood soaked, battle worn, and reeking of plasma and overheating metal. A gleam of light off black water. The cold hard angles of an Imperial Star Destroyer.

But you don’t feel fear. Or anxiety. Just the ice cold, pinpoint focus that’s had you in its grip. 

You also dream of the bits of home you remember, rolling green fields, vibrant blue skies, and other places too that are half remembered and hazy. 

Through it all, the long, slow, mechanical heartbeat of Darth Vader’s breathing echoes.

Everyone seems to lag a few seconds behind you as you go about your day. Your uniform feels too tight and the hallways too close. Stennic sits with you through lunch, watching your darting gaze with a careful one of his own. Stennic’s ease with silence makes his presence preferable to the quiet roar of muttered conversation at the other tables. 

The only issue with your intense attention is how slow time seems to move when you’re acutely aware of it. 

It also means that at dinner when Stennic slips his hand around yours, weaving his fingers between yours, you feel every centimeter of his warm palm. He keeps your intertwined hands resting on your thigh, where Stennic’s warmth bleeds through your uniform. 

It feels . . . nice. It feels like a peace offering. His long thumb brushes a path along the back of your hand. You squeeze his hand and let your head rest against his shoulder for just a beat. Not long enough for anyone to notice.

He walks with you to your quarters and pauses before continuing down the corridor to his own. “You’ve felt . . . far away. Ever since, well. Since you returned. It’s nice to see that you’re back. You’re an incredible being,” he murmurs softly, reaching out to tuck a stray strand of hair behind your ear. Heat rises in your cheeks as his soft green eyes seem suddenly dark. 

You reply, “Thank you, Pyotr.” You feel like you should say more, but what is there to say? Stennic, Pyotr, is everything a different you would have needed. But no, whatever darkness is in you now sings for something else, someone else.

You turn to enter your quarters and watch out of the corner of your eye as the hope drains out of him. It almost breaks your heart.

He catches your wrist, and it sends a wave of heat through your body. His hand contrasts against yours in almost every way, and something twists low in your gut. Whatever you’ve become, Stennic deserves better.

You tell him as much, saying, “Please, Pyotr. Don’t do this. I can’t give you what you want. I can’t be what you deserve.”

He cups your jaw and his touch is everything the Dark Lord’s isn’t. “Trust me,” he says and murmurs your name like a plea. “I just want you to be safe. I know I can’t ask for more, and I won’t. But . . . .” He trails off and his fingers flex minutely. He desire radiates off him like a heat distortion. He tries not to think of the ways Vader must have tortured you, hurt you. He imagines that you’re forced to yield to him, that Vader crushes you down over and over because that’s all he imagines the Dark Lord is capable of. And because that’s what he sees in you, resilience, a quiet defiance, the steady beat of waves against rocks. A hope that might dim but never goes out, can never be crushed or broken or beaten into submission. The water that wears mountains down. That freezes and thaws and survives. Thrives. Conquers.

His mind is like the thick, verdant forests you heard about as a child. Lush, rich, and glittering with life.

But how are you able to feel it? It makes no sense. Vader showed you his mind, connected his and yours, but he’s not near. You would know if he was, you’d feel him.

His eyes are wide when you’re able to refocus on the present. 

His hand drops yours as if it had burnt him. “W-was that you?” he chokes out, disbelief saturating every word.

You shake your head, trying to figure out what was wrong with you. “No,” you snap and duck into your quarters, taking deep breaths to calm your racing heart.

Vader has to come back. Soon. Whatever is going on, you can’t handle it alone. 

The first item on your datapad in the morning is an official invitation to a ceremony honoring the finest up and coming officers in the fleet. Your shuttle to Coruscant leaves in two hours.

What in the icy hell of Hoth is going on?

Alright, so evidently you’ve made waves, but why doesn’t it feel deserved? Regardless, it’s not like you can say no. You acknowledge the orders and pack a bag with your spare uniforms.

You realize your hands are trembling. The last time you did this was supposed to be an enjoyable vacation on Naboo. Now you’re heading to the planet rife with politics, crime, and the core of the Empire that will chew you up and spit you out in a heartbeat for one wrong move.

The trip Corewards takes just long enough for your anxiety to ratchet to a whole new level. You didn’t get to see Stennic before you left, so he might as well have reported you. You could be headed to your death, to execution or conscription to some kind of Inquisitor sect. It doesn’t even matter if you can actually use the Force or not, just the threat of it is enough to get you killed.

Even still, after hours sitting in the cramped cabin, the clanking sound of the landing gear on a Coruscanti landing platform is almost welcoming. The landing ramp extends and you queue up behind other Imps, some carrying important correspondence, some coming for reassignment, and some returning home. Finally, it’s your turn to shuffle out under a glowering sky, light up from underneath by billions of lit windows and signs. The platform is dark, less than half lit by security lights. It’s clearly late in local time, and your shuttle is probably the last one due in for the night.

You stand in the pool of light made by the landing gear peering into the gloom, looking for the speeder that’s supposed to take you to your quarters for the night, until the crew shoos you away. You stride out into the gloom, trying to spot speederlights. The shuttle’s own bright lights fade as it takes off through the atmosphere, and you finally spot one docked in the farthest spot. 

You walk quickly, trying to dodge the light mist that was precluding a deluge. 

It sounds like the driver is starting it up, and you let out a relieved breath, hopefully the heaters would already be blowing when you got in. It was still hard to make out if there was anyone in the cockpit or not, but it was probably droidpiloted anyway.

A flash of light from behind you takes away your night vision again, and you turn around half out of irritation. There’s another shuttle landing. You roll your eyes and pick up the pace. Whoever was on that shuttle was out of luck, you were taking that speeder and getting out of the rain no matter what. Maker, what was the point of parking so kriffing far away?

You grab the handle and just as you start to pull on it, you’re sent flying to the ground. Your head cracks against the permacrete, and the next few moments happen in a roaring blur.

You hear the cadence of cursing and a heavy weight lifting off you. A couple flashes blind you, whether real or accompanying the white noise in your ears, is beyond you.

You blink slowly and push yourself up, twisting to try and see what’s behind you. There are two figures grappling, backlit by the ship’s landing gear. It’s a Lambda Class vessel, your mind supplies hazily. 

One of the figures seems to get the upper hand with a brutal elbow to the nose. You can see a discarded blaster on the far side of the fight in the direction of the ship, and you scramble for it. You need to defend yourself. Safety. Defense. Instincts, urges, training. All seeming to kick in. You duck past the two men, one taking a kriffing brutal beating. 

You snatch up the blaster, absentmindedly noting that it’s a foreign design, pretty dissimilar to anything you’ve handled. Still, you level it at the writing pair, fighting the tremors and weakness in your arms from adrenaline and the fall.

The one with the upper hand glances at you and curses. He’s not human, but you can’t immediately place his species. It’s not urgent so your mind discards this question, prioritizing survival over everything else. He lunges for the speeder door handle.

You fire a warning shot, but it goes wide with the adrenaline, lancing off through the rain into the night, lighting up each drop as it passes.

Your eyes catch on the man struggling to rise from the ground, his face streaming with blood. Your eyes meet green eyes.

Stennic’s green eyes.

You aren’t watching the other man, but you hear the click of the door release. You’re entranced by Stennic screaming in slow motion, “Go!”

Everything goes hot and bright and then black.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Don't worry the next chapter is written and will be up as soon as I can get to editting it.
> 
> Thank you so much in advance for comments, kudos, bookmarks, subscriptions, and the time you take to read!
> 
> I appreciate you all very much 💋🖤


	9. The Tide Rises Up

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The aftermath and new things begin to grow.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My apologies for getting this up later than I intended. This is another plot chapter! We're slowly but surely moving towards a conclusion (and more smut!).

The reek of explosives and scorched metal hauls you awake. The stench of burnt hair. The pain comes next, aching in your ribs, roaring with every breath. You blink, fighting against the blur of your vision and the nausea. 

You gasp, shuddering to your hands and knees, hyperventilating because you can’t take a deep breath without pain stabbing through your core.

Stennic.

You have to get to Stennic.

You look around wildly, you know what you saw, two men, and one of them was definitely Pyotr.

But there’s nothing there.

You were thrown back about ten meters by what had to have been an explosion.

And where the two figures had been. Pyotr. Where Pyotr had been. Was nothing.

Scorched metal, twisted pieces of shrapnel, and blowing ash.

No Stennic.

He was gone. Just like that.

You turn and stumble for the Lambda shuttle. 

Somehow you get back into space. You select a preprogrammed course. Somehow Anything to take you away from this nightmare. Despite your shaking hands, your black streaked arms, and your endless tears. And then you drop into the medbay bunk and pass out.

Your throat hurts. You must have been screaming. Green eyes watch you every time you close your eyes. He tried to save you. He died for you.

You’re in the medbay on the Devastator. You’re pretty sure at least. 

Someone leaves a bag by your bedside. Your hands are too bandaged to do anything with it. Your whole front has been slathered in bacta and wrapped up. Whatever drugs they’re giving you pull you under again.

The med-droids free you from your bandages, and you flex your aching joints. There is really nothing like a bacta tank. Too bad there are certainly none available here. You scoop up the bag and sit cross legged, trying to relieve your cramping muscles. You start rifling through the bag, figuring that it was yours, but it wasn’t. Your belongings had been destroyed. There are clothes in there, but civilian clothing not uniforms. They’re also in muted greens and russets. At the bottom there’s a datapad, but it’s definitely not Imperial. It’s expensive and maybe civilian, but a cut above what you’re used to working with. You retrieve it and rest it in the hollow of your crossed legs, hidden from anyone who might glance over.

You activate it and wait a few seconds for it to boot up. It asks for a username. You type in his Imp number. You get an error message. Dank Farrik. You try his name. It asks for a password. Well, no shot there. You have a snowball’s chance on Mustafar of out-slicing him. You definitely don’t know enough about him to guess anything else. 

You take another pass through the bag, searching slower this time.

What was Stennic doing on a Coruscant landing platform? How did he even know you were there?

There’s not much else besides the clothes, but what’s left is pretty curious. There are maybe a few day’s field rations, not enough to survive on a planet, but maybe enough to travel to the Outer Rim on an unsupplied ship. A basic toiletry kit. And the clothes. Something nags at you.

You pull out a shirt in a beautiful dark evergreen. You hold it up to yourself. Big on you maybe, but definitely small for Stennic.

You run a nervous hand through your hair. There’s so much you don’t know. Shab, you don’t even really know where you are. 

You tug on the shirt and baggy pair of bronze pants that gather at the ankles. They are the only clothes available to you besides the thin medical gown. There’s another set. A large set. You leave them neatly folded where they are in the backpack. You sling the bag over your shoulder and make for the exit. 

No one stops you.

You reach the dimly lit hall. This section of the ship must be in its night-cycle, powering down non-essential tech to conserve power and create a semblance of daily rhythm. Alright, easy enough. You head towards the local hub, finding it just a few turns away.

Your fingers hover over the keyboard for a beat. You slowly lower your hands. Anywhere you log in to will record your data. Your unique log in, the local timestamp, the location.

Someone ostensibly attempted to assassinate you. 

Okay, old school recon then. 

You find a supply room. It takes about ten whole seconds to find a supply manifest on the side of a crate. 

You are not, in fact, on the Devastator. You were on the Chimaera of all ships. Kriff. The manifest doesn’t tell you much else. What’s your next move? You take out Stennic’s datapad again. Why would he include this and leave it on his ship? You try different guesses at his password, but they are all pretty weak and all misses. 

Okay, so you’ve gotta go somewhere else. Anywhere else.

To the ship bays it is. But just for good measure, you grab a handful of everything likely to be useful and add it to the backpack.

You see a trooper patrol once or twice as you navigate the hallways, but they either don’t see you or don’t care. You let your instincts guide you through the maze to where you hope the Lambda shuttle you rode here is parked.

It’s all coming up you today. Probably because almost dying in a fiery explosion is like a lifetime’s worth of bad luck. The shuttle looks freshly maintenanced, and just waiting in a hangar with only a handful of other civilian class ships. And no one’s around. Thank the Force.

You board and start the flight sequences. You’re no pilot, but these aren’t that hard to fly. 

You hear the warning klaxons for a jump to hyperspace. Well, alright now’s better than never. You punch it and slide out just before the gigantic angular ship lengthens and disappears. 

Now you’re really on your own. And hoping no one’s going to miss you. But you have the luxury of time now. You fiddle with the memory banks. All wiped, of course. Except when you slice into the data sideways. It looks like there were a couple pre-charted courses that were entered prior to arrival at Coruscant. Back to the Devastator, to the Chimaera, to a nowhere planet you’ve never heard of, and to Naboo. 

You feel a shiver skitter down your spine. Beautiful planet, terrible memories.

You find Stennic’s datapad in your hands again. Maker, this thing is sleek. It’s fast too. You wonder what it could do if you could unlock it.

If only Stennic was here. You have so many kriffing questions for him, starting with, why come after you when you had just clumsily prodded into his mind. Violated his privacy. Made him think you were some kind of Jedi. 

What a kriffing nightmare. 

You drum your fingers absentmindedly while you look over the screens it will display for you. 

You hit something and back out Stennic’s credentials. And what’s this? The pad is set up for multiple login credentials. Multiple users. You type in your own Imp number. Nope. Not that you were really expecting that to work. Then you try your name. 

And you’re in. 

No password. 

Of course, it’s prompting you to create one and you do. No sense in letting a beautiful piece of tech like this lie around so vulnerably.

Stennic . . . he set this up for you. For you. To find.

Shab.

You click to open a search and a screen of most recent files pops up for you. There’s just one. It’s a video.

You play it. 

Stennic greets you, says your name, and smiles in that way that almost looks like a frown. 

You pause the recording and rub at the tears in your eyes. Why is this so kriffing hard? You take a moment before you hit play.

_ If you are watching this, it means that I am no longer in possession of this datapad, which generally bodes ill for me. I’m not trying to be dramatic, rather just pragmatic. _

Maker, that’s so like him. A dry sense of humor. Prepared even in the most seemingly ridiculous of ways.

_ I want you to know that whatever else has happened, your wellbeing has always been one of my priorities. From the moment you were assigned to my section, I knew you were destined for great things, even when it seemed like you didn’t believe you were anything special. I had hoped that you would find your place and thrive. But I also feared that your talent would attract the wrong attention.  _

_ It is for these reasons that I have enabled this protocol. If, for any reason, I do not log into this pad every twelve hours, your credentials would become available for access. The moment you logged in, programs embedded in every piece of software I had access to began scrubbing any trace of either of us from the system. Hopefully by the time someone realizes something is amiss, you will be long gone.  _

_ I have also placed legal ownership over any and all of my possessions as of the initiation of this program under a fictitious name which has been registered with your biometrics. I don’t have much, but I own an estate on Cirrus and a modest amount of savings. These are for your protection and your freedom. Cirrus is a safe place. The coordinates for my residence and all the details I have mentioned before are contained in this datapad. _

_ You can go anywhere now, be whoever you want. I know you have the skills to slice your way into whatever life you desire. I pray to the Maker you will take this opportunity. _

_ Be great. _

Pyotr Stennic pauses for a moment, something shifting in his eyes. He murmurs your name once more, softly, before signing off,  _ I love you. May the Force be with you. _

The grief grips you once more, heaving sobs and the sounds of a wounded animal fill the cockpit. 

What galaxy is a fair place that allows a good man such as Stennic to die? 

You wipe away your tears and pull up the details on Cirrus. It’s the nowhere planet hidden in the shuttle databanks. You pull up the coordinates and set the course before returning to the datapad.

You pull up the other files, freshly created and uploaded, but encoded to look much older. There’s your alias as promised. Yrina Difahn. And there is the deed to his Cirrus estate. 

Which is, in typical Stennic understatement, basically a palace. 

The attached holophotos show a simple but elegant edifice overlooking a lake bordered by forests. Maker, it looks so nice.

There are credit statements as well.

Modest. He said  _ modest _ . These accounts? Are not modest. There are about half a dozen accounts, two personal and the rest in various shell company holdings. Pyotr Stennic is . . . was quite a wealthy man. Maybe just by your standards, but still. You could live quite extravagantly for the rest of your life off the interest alone. 

You lean back and let the streaking hyperspace entrance you for a while. You lose yourself in how quiet it is. How alone you are.

Certainly for the first time since Naboo. 

Even then, there were others around. Except in that stupid kriffing cave. Looking back on it now, it was an absolute rookie mistake. It still doesn’t take the panicky edge off the memories. 

It feels like a lifetime has passed since then, but it’s only been a few months. How much has changed. How much will change?

Stennic has handed you a life. Everything you were too naive to want. It feels like cheating. It feels fake. You keep waiting for it all to come crashing down, but it doesn’t.

How much was he hiding from you? How many secrets died with him?

Tears well up in your eyes, and you make your way to the galley for a hydration canister. Maker, haven’t you cried out every last drop of moisture by now?

Desperate for a distraction, you load up some holodrama and let it play while you slip in and out of sleep, and hyperspace streams all around you.

Cirrus, despite being practically unheard of, is downright gorgeous. Beautiful cities interspersed with cool, deep lakes and all skirted by flourishing woods. The cities are predominantly built with creamy white stone and the roads are lined with burnt sienna colored bricks. Transparisteel and a light silvery metal flow seamlessly throughout the buildings. Deep sapphire and teal lakes are ringed by graminaceous fields dotted with jewel colored flowers. 

The Lambda shuttle skims over it all as it coasts to Pyotr Stennic’s residence. The files you’ve found trace its ownership back generations in Stennic’s family. It appears that he has some distant cousins, but he was an only child. His parents had passed away while he was in the Academy. 

No one to mourn him but you. No one to miss him but you. 

The estate has a dedicated landing pad. The first thing you do is verify that there are other ships, which of course there are. They’re already fully fueled and well maintained. 

You wipe every trace of you and Stennic from the shuttle and chart a course to a nearby star, overriding every safety. The ship will be incinerated, and the last trace of you will disappear.

You do some heavyweight slicing in the planetary registers and rename the celadon colored lake that laps against the castle base Pyotr. 

Then you spend the rest of the day gathering and hauling every stone larger than a fist to a grassy verge rising between the far side of the house and the border of the forest. It overlooks the calm waters and the rolling, endless sea of trees.

You painstakingly build a cairn for Stennic until it rises a little more than a meter high and two meters long. There’s nothing to inter but the work eases the hard lump of grief strangling you. 

You throw yourself into the lake and rinse the dirt and sweat from your body. You rise, dripping with water and kneel at the feet of the cairn. 

You hold vigil all night, reciting every prayer and final rites you can think of. As the bloodred light of dawn spills over you, you rise again and enter Pyotr Stennic’s home.

It looks so . . . pristine. It’s the only thing your tired brain can take in. You find a bedroom and a refresher and make yourself decent. You’re still dripping water and naked when you pull the blankets over you.

A Protocol droid rouses you in that dry, disjointed tone they all seem to have. She identifies herself as 3P-J4 and presents a tray of food.

“Mistress Difahn, we are so pleased to have you here. Please, eat. Whatever you need, we are here to serve Mistress.”

You thank her and eat, finding the presence a little unsettlingly. Thankfully, she doesn’t linger of her own accord. You aren’t much used to droids, and it’s hard to be at ease when all you can think about is how easy it would be to add a few lines of code or a program to their CPU and turn it into a killing machine. 

Still, if Jayfour was Stennic’s, she was probably alright. She appears a few moments later with a stack of clothes.

“I believe these will fit you best, Mistress Difahn.”

“Thank you, Jayfour. Please call me . . . just call me Yrina,” you say from the bed where you’re sitting with the blankets tucked up around your chest.

“Yes, Mistress Yrina. I am at your service.” She dips a bow and backs out of the room, leaving you to dress.

The new clothes are of a similar style to the ones you arrived in and in soft greens edged in gold. They are the finest things you’ve ever worn.

The residence, which looked large enough to house a large family from the outside, is even more expansive within. Parts of the house extend under the knolls that rise up and cup the lake. There’s more here than you could ever hope to use or enjoy on your own. You could sleep in a different bedroom every night for more than a week. The room you’d chosen was small and clearly a guest room compared to everything else you’d seen.

You startle as Jayfour’s bright voice cuts across the office where you’ve been standing. “Does Mistress Yrina want the main suite set up to her specifications?”

“Um, no thank you. The one I’ve been using is fine.” You wonder if Pyotr ever slept in that bed. If his parents did. People you will never meet, who knew Stennic far better than you ever will. “Was this Stennic’s office?”

“Master Stennic, madame? Why yes, yes it is.” She turns and ambles away, apparently done with the conversation.

Terribly slowly, you start booting up the databanks. Whatever is left of him in this life is on these machines. 

And there’s . . . there’s so much. He backed up everything he found to these computers. There’s the file on Vader’s covert mission to a new first rate Star Destroyer. Here’s one on troop placement and formations. There’s a thousand times over the number of files needed to convict him of treason. Easily a terabyte worth of files you’ve never seen before, and likely only a handful of beings have. 

You’ve long been aware that you were operating in a gray area morally. Working for the powers in control that don’t necessarily act in the best interest of all beings. You’ve known that the Republic was flawed in many ways, allowing slavery to flourish while communities, races, even entire planets backslid into poverty and crime. You’ve known that the Empire wasn’t much more than a consolidated power structure of the same old imperfect system at best.

You didn’t realize how much worse things had gotten. You didn’t move through worlds like the troopers did, you didn’t look into the eyes of civilians as you took their livelihoods, their family, and pressed them into service in mines and factories. Now you do see what the bottom of the Empire’s boot looks like.

And here is all the proof you could need, the field reports, the trooper feed stills, the so-called requisition agreements that allocated entire inter-planetary businesses to the Empire.

Your head aches and you dry heave. How did Stennic stand to watch all of this.

But he didn’t. You start to find places where he obfuscated, where he misdirected. 

You start to see where he began to build a plan. And key to that plan was . . . 

You.

He was laying the groundwork to take you both off the grid along with a handful of other dissenters. A group with the knowledge of the integral systems of the Empire.

A group too dangerous to let free.

You find the orders sending you on leave, authorizing transport to Naboo, coming from the highest authority in the Empire.

A test. A verification of a leak. Trying to suss out a leader, to drive them to act. 

But of course, it was Vader that acted. 

You flinch and slap off the monitor feeds.

A migraine lingers through the night and into the next day. Your world is shifting beneath your feet, and you feel the fields of darkness in your mind flexing and yearning for new justice, new truth. It sings for upheaval and chaos in protest to the Empire’s brutal order. 

You rest and eat, walking through the viridescent flora as the honeyed sunlight drips and glitters on it all. You haven’t seen another soul in days, and it’s refreshing in strange, new ways. Your indigo mindscape is filling cracks and breathing freely without the crush and unpredictability of other beings.

This . . . gift that Stennic has given you, it’s beyond comprehension.

You return to the databanks with purpose. Whoever else has been colluding with Stennic has continued their work, feeding files and reports through layers of encryptions and embedded in seemingly innocuous missives. They all wound up here eventually.

For your eyes and hands, your plans.

But what would they be? If given the chance to remake the galaxy, in whose image would it be? What could you possibly do to right so many wrongs? 

Well, first you need to test the waters, but whatever move you make first needs to be carefully orchestrated.

You set a few programs to pull keywords and notify you if any of them show up. 

If you ever see Vader again, what could you possibly say?

How can you explain the truth you now feel deep in your bones, in the deepest part of you?

That no matter what else could be right, the Empire is wrong. That nothing can justify the harm that’s been done. The peace and freedom, the justice and security, it’s only for those in control, only those in power. There is no peace or justice for the children starving, even in the Midrim, on planets that can’t be gutted for minerals or stamped over with Imperial faculties. 

Will he see the cracks like you do? Will he fight for these people the way you want to?

You know he feels driven to protect, even when it feels against his better judgment. 

Can you reach him?

Over the next days or weeks, you spend hours in front of those screens, tweaking data, fabricating reports, and creating lies. You’re doing your best to subtly shift resources to the planets that were hurting the worst. It is tricky to do, but it’s like you’ve been working your whole life to hone these skills. Whatever natural aptitude for slicing you may have had, all these years finessing and undoing hidden intelligence has made you sharp when it comes to doing the reverse. You know exactly what they look for, how they tackle data in the Empire. So you know exactly how to hide what you don’t want them to find, and how to leave a trail to what you do want them to find. 

You generate and place hundreds, thousands of missives and records. It’s endless work for incremental changes.

Maybe . . . maybe it’s time for a different approach. But there’s not very much you can do on your own, even if you increase your profile’s rank as high as you reasonably can without anyone noticing. 

So you need allies. Stennic already had a few, and you’ve vetted them to the best of your ability. Unfortunately, none of them are high enough ranking, none higher than you or Stennic. You turn your attention to possible accomplices among the Admirals and higher. The pickings are quite slim. A few potential names, but there’s something else you need to do.

You won’t be able to move through Imperial ranks for long without running into the one person you burn for with every cell in your body yet dread meeting more than anything else. Your desire and drive for survival are so fiercely at odds, it feels like it’s tearing you apart. Whatever peace and healing you’ve found here are now curtailed by the battle taking place in your heart and your mind. 

The question is: could Vader’s loyalties lie with you or ultimately with the Empire?

You can still feel his face pressed against your stomach in supplication. How deeply do his feelings run? He’s the famed Dark Lord, bloodsoaked black right hand to the Emperor. 

Do you go to him alone or with a figurative hand to play?

What would Darth Vader respect?

The truth is that he is the gamble you are willing to take. You will have to face him one way or the other, and if he will not stand with you now, then he may never. 

And there is no endgame where you both live on opposite sides of this conflict. You will either be enemies and dash each other to pieces on the rocks or be allies and shake the Empire to its core.

You compose dozens of potential messages. Plan for a dozen different meetings. Where can you both stand on equal ground? Where can you go that will ensure he meets you alone? No army for either of you, just a friendly treasonous negotiation.

Eventually you realize it has to be Naboo. It’s the last place you want to go, but that’s exactly why you have to. 

You only have access to civilian vehicles, so you can’t land in any Star Destroyer hangars or Empire bases. You have to pick a planet that isn’t too inhabited. Somewhere he can reasonably be interested in going but that wouldn’t provide enough of a threat to justify troopers. So Coruscant is out, as is Corellia, Mustafar, and Bespin. 

And Naboo is a planet you’ve seen, and you’re not about to make the same mistakes you did the first time around. So you can do this. For Vader, for your future, for the future of the galaxy, you can face Naboo and the shadows it holds for you.

You stand on a grassy hill and watch all around you, waiting for the distinctive Imperial ship to appear. Either a Star Destroyer to hunt you down or Vader’s distinctive TIE. Or maybe just a shuttle filled with a strike team to take you out. 

The message you sent was a beautiful old poem embedded with your coordinates. You’re certain the opening lines will capture his attention: “Ah, Golden Eyes, to win you yet, / I bring mine blooming coronet.” 

You are betting on being one of only a few that knew the color of his eyes. You’re hoping that he will hear your offer of peace in those lines.

As the distinctively angled wings of Vader’s TIE fighter streak and whine through the atmosphere, you feel a flicker of hope. He heard some part of your intended message since he’s not bringing the Imperial legions down on you, and he’s really here. 

You know it’s him because you can feel him like a storm rolling over the horizon. It’s equal parts thrilling and terrifying.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you very very much in advance for your comments, kudos, bookmarks, and subscriptions!!!
> 
> I treasure every comment and the time you all take to spend with me on this journey 💋🖤

**Author's Note:**

> Kudos and comments are much appreciated!!


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